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 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. Untitled By John Slaughter A boy hears whispers from the past, not words but tongues, The battle cry, the rolling thunder, the beating drum. He stands tall and proud, his tree lib blade in hand, Dreaming of victory against numbers no man can stand. The burning urge to fight soon fades, Through women, years, and old age. He accepts the tragedy life soon bears, Held captive under keyboards and office chairs. Yet in the quiet, in the dark, The rolling thunder revives a spark, A memory, a life unlived, the ghostly tongues, the beating drum, The warrior's heart.
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