Front matter

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.