Yourn.

The sun draws up over the dying trees
I think of you, and dream that you are mine
Your hair, which is beloved of the breeze
And which is like a gold puff of sunshine.
Each soft exquisite flicker of your eyes
In your red mouth each tiny change of mood
Your wrists, your hands, your fingertips, your thighs
All to which I would be in servitude.
I dream that I may witness every day
A crawl to climax of my craftmanship
And when the flush has burned itself away
From your face, I would hold you with a grip
Of affectionate iron; that you would not
Escape away, or from my bedroom go
To find some boy to teach you what was what
Oh no, my love, oh never, never, no!
I dream one day that I might do what would
To earn your love; I seek advice from books
Which tell me that my hopes shall not come good
Yet I maroon myself still in your looks.
Your soft seraphic looks! Too well I know
How it is to want, yet not to be wanted
What cruelty of nature made me so
Ever abandoned, unloved, hurt, and haunted!
There is no hope, yet hope still comes to me
Each bleak day, in the coming of the dawn
Deep in my heart, I am finally free
To think of you, and dream that I am yourn.