Francis Turner

I COULD not run or play

In boyhood.

In manhood I could only sip the cup,

Not drink — For scarlet-fever left my heart diseased.

Yet I lie here

Soothed by a secret none but Mary knows:

There is a garden of acacia,

Catalpa trees, and arbors sweet with vines —

There on that afternoon in June

By Mary's side —

Kissing her with my soul upon my lips

It suddenly took flight.