It was in the pale garden of Zaïs;

The mist-shrouded gardens of Zaïs,

Where blossoms the white nephalotë,

The redolent herald of midnight.

There slumber the still lakes of crystal,

And streamlets that flow without murm’ring;

Smooth streamlets from caverns of Kathos

Where brood the calm spirits of twilight.

And over the lakes and the streamlets

Are bridges of pure alabaster,

White bridges all cunningly carven

With figures of fairies and daemons.

Here glimmer strange suns and strange planets,

And strange is the crescent Banapis

That sets ’yond the ivy-grown ramparts

Where thickens the dust of the evening.

Here fall the white vapours of Yabon;

And here in the swirl of vapours

I saw the divine Nathicana;

The garlanded, white Nathicana;

The slender, black-hair’d Nathicana;

The sloe-ey’d, red-lipp’d Nathicana;

The silver-voic’d, sweet Nathicana;

The pale-rob’d, belov’d Nathicana.

And ever was she my belovèd,

From ages when Time was unfashion’d;

From days when the stars were not fashion’d

Nor any thing fashion’d but Yabon.

And here dwelt we ever and ever,

The innocent children of Zaïs,

At peace in the paths and the arbours,

White-crown’d with the blest nephalotë.

How oft would we float in the twilight

O’er flow’r-cover’d pastures and hillsides

All white with the lowly astalthon;

The lowly yet lovely astalthon,

And dream in a world made of dreaming

The dreams that are fairer than Aidenn;

Bright dreams that are truer than reason!

So dream’d and so lov’d we thro’ ages,

Till came the curs’d season of Dzannin;

The daemon-damn’d season of Dzannin;

When red shone the suns and the planets,

And red gleamed the crescent Banapis,

And red fell the vapours of Yabon.

Then redden’d the blossoms and streamlets

And lakes that lay under the bridges,

And even the calm alabaster

Glow’d pink with uncanny reflections

Till all the carv’d fairies and daemons

Leer’d redly from the backgrounds of shadow.

Now redden’d my vision, and madly

I strove to peer thro’ the dense curtain

And glimpse the divine Nathicana;

The pure, ever-pale Nathicana;

The lov’d, the unchang’d Nathicana.

But vortex on vortex of madness

Beclouded my labouring vision;

My damnable, reddening vision

That built a new world for my seeing;

A new world of redness and darkness,

A horrible coma call’d living.

So now in this coma call’d living

I view the bright phantons of beauty;

The false, hollow phantoms of beauty

That cloak all the evils of Dzannin.

I view them with infinite longing,

So like do they seem to my lov’d one;

So shapely and fair like my lov’d one;

Yet foul from their eyes shines their evil;

Their cruel and pitiless evil,

More evil than Thaphron and Latgoz,

Twice ill for its gorgeous concealment.

And only in slumbers of midnight

Appears the lost maid Nathicana,

The pallid, the pure Nathicana,

Who fades at the glance of the dreamer.

Again and again do I seek her;

I woo with deep draughts of Plathotis,

Deep draughts brew’d in wine of Astarte

And strengthen’d with tears of long weeping.

I yearn for the gardens of Zaïs;

The lovely lost garden of Zaïs

Where blossoms the white nephalotë,

The redolent herald of midnight.

The last potent draught I am brewing;

A draught that the daemons delight in;

A draught that will banish the redness;

The horrible coma call’d living.

Soon, soon, if I fail not in brewing,

The redness and madness will vanish,

And deep in the worm-peopled darkness

Will rot the base chains that hav bound me.

Once more shall the gardens of Zaïs

Dawn white on my long-tortur’d vision,

And there midst the vapours of Yabon

Will stand the divine Nathicana;

The deathless, restor’d Nathicana

Whose like is not met with in living.