It May Be

A poem of unrequited love. Started by my father, finished by his son. Dedicated to Warren F. Stier Jr.

It may be a strange dream
Seized you tonight,
Causing you to awake,
Alarmed, you thought you saw an angel
But, it was only your mirror.

In her midnight flight,
She undid her long hair.
Off to rob the dawn of my
Sweet object of desire.

You should think no longer of
Some old, unfaithful lover.
I am the lover.
I have wings.
I will teach you to fly.

May the muse of falsehood
Bring to the ends of your fingers
That scorn which is but a dream

Of a Shepherd prouder than a king.