A dream lies dead here. May you softly go
Before this place, and turn  away your eyes,
Nor seek to know the look of that which dies
Importuning  Life for life. Walk not in woe,
But, for a little, let your step be slow.
And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise
With words of hope and Spring  and tenderer skies.
A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know:

Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree--
Though white of bloom as  it had been before
And proudly waitful of fecundity--
One little  loveliness can be no more;
And so must Beauty bow her imperfect head
Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!