Poem by Henry Timrod

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. Carmen Triumphale
2. The Unknown Dead
3. Vox et Præterea Nihil
4. Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
5. Sonnets. 12. What Gossamer Lures Thee Now? What Hope, What Name

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