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 amissAs not to fill love’s waiting heart with bliss,And merit dalliance at a long, long kiss?