By Clark Ashton Smith
Thy soul is like a secret garden-close,
Where roots of cleft rnandragoras enwreathe;
Where bergamot and fumitory breathe,
And ivy winds its tower with the rose.
The lolling weeds of Lethe, green or wan,
Exhale their fatal languors on the light;
From out infernal grails of aconite
Poisons and dews are proffered to the dawn.
Here, when the moon’s phantasmal fingers grope
To find the marbles of a hidden tomb,
There sings the cypress-perchèd nightingale;
And all the silver-bellied serpents pale
Their ruby eyes amid the blossoms ope,
To lift and listen in the ghostly gloom.