 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
A LEARNER
I do not think you rightly understand:My foolish tongue imperfectly has caught
The trick of loving words, nor, as it ought,
Serves the sweet purpose of the heart's command.
Dear, I'm untraveled in the golden land
Of love, and in its language all untaught,
Like some poor mariner by tempest brought
'Mongst alien races to a foreign strand.
So, pretty native, bear with me until
My simple wants I rightly can avow—
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For lo! already I've some little skill
In the strange tongue. Ask me to kiss you now—
I'll read the riddle ere it leaves your lips!
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |