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; and lips, Whose beauty spoke the rose's tongue Of fragrance-voweled drips.
I will not tell of cheeks and chin, That held me as sweet language holds; Nor of the eloquence within Her bosom's moony molds.
Nor of her large limbs' languorous Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through Her ardent robe's diaphanous Web of the mist and dew.
There is no star so pure and high As was her look; no fragrance such At 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.

Nevermore at doorways that are barken Shall the madcap wind knock and the noonlight; Nor the circle, which thou once didst darken, Shine with footsteps of the neighboring moonlight, Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken.
Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces, Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter, Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places; Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor, Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces.
And no more, between the savage wonder Of the sunset and the moon's up-coming, Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, under Thy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the humming Of the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder.