A Trifle

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.