But who has hung from leaf to leaf,
From flower to flower, a silken twine—
A cloud of grey that holds the dew
In globes of clear enchanted wine.
Or stretches far from branch to branch,
From thorn to thorn, in diamond rain,
Who caught the cup of crystal pine
And hung so fair the shining chain?
'Tis Death, the spider, in his net
Who lures the dancers as they glide