A Trifle

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Title:     A Trifle
Author: Henry Timrod [More Titles by Timrod]

I know not why, but ev'n to me
My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies--
I read my thoughts within thine eyes.

And so dare fancy that my art
May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words
Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet
As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak,
I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss,
Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here--I cannot tell--
Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by,
Lily may deeper see than I.

[The end]
Henry Timrod's poem: Trifle

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