Poem by Henry Timrod

* * *

              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. 4. They Dub Thee Idler, Smiling Sneeringly
2. Sonnets. 12. What Gossamer Lures Thee Now? What Hope, What Name
3. Sonnets. 6. I Scarcely Grieve, O Nature! at the Lot
4. Sonnets. 14. Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes
5. A Common Thought

Print

1289 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version