I could not run or play
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.