traces of kisses in the Past—put aside my wreath of purple velvet flowers—and go, walking tranquilly and slowly, by the cold light of the moon, to kneel at the grave where my dreams lie buried, and press my brow to the base of the tombstone that covers them, … and muse.
Once, I hung up a wreath of snow-white lilies there; now, I do so no more. I never carry any flowers to that tomb now.
Nor do I ever strive to roll away the grey stone from the sepulchre—that stone, with its black fretwork of ferns graven upon it of old.
Then I go home, and again array myself in my purple velvet flowers. …
Fragrance, beyond words, wild and fatal perfume of withered roses! Sweet, most sweet and ardent lips—lips now lost for ever! … Ah, that houri, with arms like pale dead gold!
All this—I can no longer say whether it was a dream or not. …
Ah! but what is this? Have the cool white lilies blossomed once again in my deserted garden?
A dream!—A dream!
