If I Were First (A Sonnet)

If I were first with you, then you'd turn red,
As blood fouled up your youthful countenance,
And mid the roses of our wedding bed,
Might weep lost days of pious innocence.

It isn't wrong to pick a blossomed rose,
Or to enjoy a summer-ripened fruit,
But sad to trim the bud that springtime blows
Or cut the upstart sapling at its root.

Then you who have endured the spring and thrived,
And given seed entrapped in berries sweet,
Whose pleasant taste the winter has survived,
Know well the flavor that my tongue will greet.

Oh let me fall as drops of golden rain,
Upon your garden hid by lonely pain.