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?