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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Sure it was a wave Ended in a scratch Across my temple. And much I could do to tell this maiden It wasn't her I dared my precious Moment to laud. And she walked by Frowning, since perhaps she knew a scratch- And if one should follow up a wave, She could tell that difference Between a squint and a dim. She's beginning to swagger And this grin of impersonality Has creased her cheeks; To tell me perhaps of this blow And she would let it again If not warned, I tried to fool around more. But this was she at the pew Who before the form' Was read by the bearded Vicar Always turned to seek my hand for peace And when the pew was worn She took to a porch where I found out A salaam to the altar was better And how better without her, I did not see. And I took my time To let her see it could without me be hell Then I closed my palms over my mouth And gently let moisture For my palms mustn't remain roughened; And hers I knew a supple mass Would want one good enough for a tarry. A tarry certainly for the smile that came; And these palms- not involved with bricks Had to the owner held out chance. A chance, thought I and a smile Sometime at the roads But see her whose smile would here Matter most, swaggering away, Hurting numberless feelings Yet I know she would think of peace With shakes and hugs If only the Vicar were here
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