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-Moon'D 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.