THE GARDEN OF DREAMS

Not while I live may I forget

That garden which my spirit trod!

Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet,

And beautiful as God.

Not while I breathe, awake, adream,

Shall live again for me those hours,

When, in its mystery and gleam,

I met her‘ mid the flowers.

Eyes, talismanic heliotrope,

Beneath mesmeric lashes, where

The sorceries of love and hope

Had made a shining lair.

And daydawn brows, whereover hung

The twilight of dark locks: wild birds,

Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue

Of fragrance-voweled words.

I will not tell of cheeks and chin,

That held me as sweet language holds;

Nor of the eloquence within

Her breasts’ twin-moonéd molds.

Nor of her body's languorous

Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through

Her clinging robe's diaphanous

Web of the mist and dew.

There is no star so pure and high

As was her look; no fragrance such

As her soft presence; and no sigh

Of music like her touch.

Not while I live may I forget

That garden of dim dreams, where I

And Beauty born of Music met,

Whose spirit passed me by.