Henry Timrod (8 December 1828 - 7 October 1867 / Charleston, South Carolina)
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.
Henry Timrod's Other Poems
- 1866 -- Addressed To The Old Year
- A Bouquet
- A Common Thought
- A Cry to Arms
- A Dedication - To K.S.G.
- A Mother Gazes Upon Her Daughter
- A Mother's Wail
- A Prize Poem
- A Rhapsody Of A Southern Winter Night
- A Summer Shower
- A Trifle
- A Vision of Poesy - Part 01
- A Vision of Poesy - Part 02
- A Year's Courtship
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