A Trifle By Henry Timrod
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 offerin…
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