BENEATH THE SALVIAS
Beneath the salvias, where some angel slew
The favors that were granted by his god,
My heart is hidden; let thy feet be shod
With feathers plucked from my wings of crimson hue.
When here again thou might'st be wandering through;
Look not above; I'm breathing in the sod,
A-mindless of the years, 'neath which I'm trod—
Of Spring birds' song, or shrieks of Winter's crew.
Here let me sleep, my lady: wake me not;
Here let me gather, hidden from the moon
And the sun, the strength to rise again and see;
No sweeter, dearer, more enchanting spot
Is there for my sick heart; O, not so soon—
Awake me not — O, let me dream of thee.