Henry Timrod (Генри Тимрод)

* * *

              Sonnet

If I have graced no single song of mine
With thy sweet name, they all are full of thee;
Thou art my Muse, my "May", my "Madeline":
But "Julia"!—ah! that gentle name to me
Is something far too sacred for the throng
Of worldly listeners 'round me.  Yet ev'n now
I weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow;—
Wilt thou not wear it?  'T is a fashionable song,—
I will not say of what,—but on it I
Have wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame,
Yet after all it hath no nobler aim
Than thy dear praise.  Ere many moons pass by,
When the lost gem is set, the crown complete,
I'll lay a poet's tribute at thy feet.

1. Sonnets. 14. Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes
2. A Year's Courtship
3. Lines (I Stooped from Star-Bright Regions)
4. Sonnets. 11. Which Are the Clouds, and Which the Mountains? See
5. La Belle Juive

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