The Garden of Dreams, by Madison Cawein

  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.