A Learner by Ambrose Bierce — Past Poetry archive

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— My will to serve you with my men and ships. 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!