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.