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.