My Waiting Lady, My Dying Lady

In the garden of our dreams, my beloved waits for me,
placid as the morning dew, evanescent as the departing night,
but patiently in a shade’s embrace, sits fanciful and free,
lost in wondrous thought, and a visage fair and bright
awaits my arrival wistfully, under the arched Eden tree,
slightly anxious yet timid, chasing shadows in the light,
but a thousand miles from my beloved, my beloved I can see
and our despairing abode around her, falling into blight,
the flowers turning pale, are not as verdant as she,
and a thousand days have set, much to pathos delight,
where once my prison stood, now there ripples the sea,
buried under so many leagues, leagues of sorrow’s respite,
while in our bounteous home, my woman calls to me,
holding my memory’s vigil, a flame still burning despite
she knows somewhere within, in an ossuary I may be,
forgive me love, I have moved on, for that I am contrite,
but then she tastes the fruit, forbidden which does agree
to let her be with me in death, and deign to leave this sight,
for this garden bounteous wilting, amnesiac of springs glee
can rest with solace knowing, we rest in heavens plight.