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-moond 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.