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?