 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
92
TO ANNA
(Written in an album)
Who hath not sometimes found a leaf or flower,
On which were traced, as by some spirit hand,
Dim lines that had a meaning and a power,
He almost could, yet could not understand.
On which were traced, as by some spirit hand,
Dim lines that had a meaning and a power,
He almost could, yet could not understand.
Still those dark signs pleased better than if wrought
In letters legible by human art;
They kindled fancy, if they roused no thought,
And stirred some nameless feelings in the heart.
In letters legible by human art;
They kindled fancy, if they roused no thought,
And stirred some nameless feelings in the heart.
So, Anna, I would have thee always hold,
Whatever rhymes these pages shall contain,
Dear for the tender love they would unfold,
Dear for the wish they may not well explain.
Whatever rhymes these pages shall contain,
Dear for the tender love they would unfold,
Dear for the wish they may not well explain.
The words may tell as little as the flower,
And will not always please a critic eye;
For few can write with all a passion's power,
And none can speak so warmly as they sigh.
And will not always please a critic eye;
For few can write with all a passion's power,
And none can speak so warmly as they sigh.
Yet should'st thou prize them, Anna, far above
The well-coined flatteries of a polished art,
Each is a trophy thou hast won from love,
Each is a tribute to thy kindly heart.
The well-coined flatteries of a polished art,
Each is a trophy thou hast won from love,
Each is a tribute to thy kindly heart.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |