Bryon, Shelley, and Keats

I had such a dream last night,
As sweet as an orchard in bloom.
I was in a room.
The opened window beckoned the breeze
And made the shears stand out
From the wall and wave in the air
With ruffles and flourishes
On a rush of wind and birdsong.
Oh, the spring day, bright with sunshine
Nourishing all that is green.
I stood at the window that overlooked
The garden as lovely as Eden once was,
As romantic as Bryson, Shelley, and Keats.
I went outside, placed a chair among the blooms,
Sat in the sun with awe and adoration.
Oh, such beauty, the tender flowers,
They tossed their heads
Causing their perfume to drift
On the breeze this way and that.
A thimble full of love that filled the garden,
The yard next,
And the near distant wood line.
The beauty of the moment,
The pleasure of the day.
In a flash the season ended
When the colors all faded and fell
Like Keats succumbed to tuberculosis in Rome,
As a sudden storm wrecked Shelley's sailboat
Drowning him in the Gulf of Spezia,
And like Byron died a hero
In the Greek War of Independence.
Like dying poets, the flowers wilted away slowly
And spring was gone all too soon.
Now, I'm left with only the memory
Of the garden in a dream
Which is often revived
By the floral scent in your perfume.
It reminds me of the dream
With a chair in the garden
On a perfect spring day,
Even when reality has me feeling
As lost as a ball in high weeds.