Henry Timrod (Генри Тимрод)

A Trifle

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. 

1. On Pressing Some Flowers
2. Sonnets. 14. Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes
3. Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
4. A Common Thought
5. The Unknown Dead

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