This is the end of all our toil and pains.
Over the threshold hangs a shrunken lute,
Upon a tree where grows nor flower nor fruit;
Bewildering odors fill the heavy air,
The nightshade and the wolf’s-bane mingle there;
The faint perfume of rose and lily, too,
Is swallowed up by asphodel and rue.
We enter in, behold, a lowly bed,
How sweet the poppied perfume o’er it shed,
Where the red poppy swings its censer head.