Narrator:
O happy childhood—In the clay—
in the summer dust of Georgia.
I have forgotten much, but still remember.
The poinsettias red, blood red in warm December.
What weeks, what months,
what wild time of the mild year.
We cheated school to have our fling at tops.
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy.
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse –
Oh, Some I know!
I have embalmed
The days, even the sacred moments
When we played
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade.
We were so happy, happy
I remember…

Narrator:
He grew to young manhood, and
With his beloved,
He lived the young man’s fancy –
“The time of the singing of birds is come;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The voice of the turtle is
heard in the land.”