There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-

Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses

That gave out, in return for the love-light,

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-

Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses

That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted

By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank

I saw thee half reclining; while the moon

Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,

And on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight-

Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),

That bade me pause before that garden-gate,

To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?

No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept,

Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!-oh, G.o.d!

How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)

Save only thee and me. I paused-I looked-

And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly l.u.s.tre of the moon went out;

The mossy banks and the meandering paths,

The happy flowers and the repining trees,

Were seen no more: the very roses' odors

Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All-all expired save thee-save less than thou:

Save only the divine light in thine eyes-

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.