They say the dim wraiths dwell there
Of countless, long-dead lovers.
Warp of sleep and woof of love:
The flush of a live rose glows
By the pallid death of the rose,
A song next the hush that stilled its numbers:
Such is the web Time wove.
Dare we disturb their slumbers?
We stand on the outskirts, you and I—
Shall we not venture in?