Songs, Merry and Sad






Trifles

     What shall I bring you, sweet?
      A posy prankt with every April hue:
      The cloud-white daisy, violet sky-blue,
      Shot with the primrose sunshine through and through?

     Or shall I bring you, sweet,
      Some ancient rhyme of lovers sore beset,
      Whose joy is dead, whose sadness lingers yet,
      That you may read, and sigh, and soon forget?

     What shall I bring you, sweet?
      Was ever trifle yet so held amiss
      As not to fill love's waiting heart with bliss,
      And merit dalliance at a long, long kiss?

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