Wonder
By: Julien Edmund Moss
O, maiden, with your light brown curls of hair
Your tender words of friendship,
And gestures showing care
My thought to you, much like the ewe,
Are peaceful in the pines
And though from me, they are set free,
My love, for you- I pine
I made love to you in a dream
Could you say it wasn’t so?
I saw your library the same
Would you tempt me in the throe?
Note: This is one of my poems that will never make it. It's not even one of those poems where it's like, "I just have to tweak this." I guess I'm posting this as an example of what not to do in poetry. Anybody who wants to go ahead and tear this sucker apart should feel welcome to do so. I'll go first: I hate the part that says, "My love, for you- I pine." It's like it could be sung in a schmaltzy three-part harmony or something.