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Poem	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!
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