Francis TurnerI could not run or playIn boyhood.In manhood I could only sip the cup,Not drink—For scarlet-fever left my heart diseased.Yet I lie hereSoothed 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 JuneBy Mary’s side—Kissing her with my soul upon my lipsIt suddenly took flight.
I could not run or playIn boyhood.In manhood I could only sip the cup,Not drink—For scarlet-fever left my heart diseased.Yet I lie hereSoothed 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 JuneBy Mary’s side—Kissing her with my soul upon my lipsIt suddenly took flight.