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
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Comments about this poem (A Trifle by Henry Timrod )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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