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. Sonnets. 4. They Dub Thee Idler, Smiling Sneeringly
2. A Rhapsody of a Southern Winter Night
3. Lines to R. L.
4. A Common Thought
5. Ethnogenesis

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