Magnolia

Pregnant are the magnolias of swept, saccharine memoirs-
For, do they not kiss the sweetest nose of a child?
My, my- time has its way, does it not?
See then- so small and honest are their own
That they will easily see past its end.
Alas! Those speechless babies- what has become of those
Who once would entangle themselves so shy
Amid the waving tresses, these free-flowing skirts,
And simplest frames that could climb so very high?
Nay! They themselves have so changed
Many another would call it growth
Yet indeed I feel slighted at the thought
That developing a loss of heart, of mind, of care,
Of so logically applying the irrational
Becomes the man in human.
And indeed, I make a pledge that we re-run
Backwards, past the cotton curtains-
So, like the playful ones we were- and ought to be-
To make merry amongst our own magnolias.