Beneath the Salvias

Beneath the salvias, where some angel slew The favors that were granted by his god, My heart is hidden; let thy feet be shod With feathers plucked from my wings of crimson hue. When here again thou might’st be wandering through; Look not above; I’m breathing in the sod, A-mindless of the years, ’neath which I’m trod— Of Spring birds’ song, or shrieks of Winter’s crew. Here let me sleep, my lady: wake me not; Here let me gather, hidden from the moon And the sun, the strength to rise again and see; No sweeter, dearer, more enchanting spot Is there for my sick heart; O, not so soon— Awake me not—O, let me dream of thee.