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 crim- 
         son 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.