Proem

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 In fragrance-voweled words.

I will not speak 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 Song within the spirit met, Sweet Song, who passed me by.