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.
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