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?