The Princess Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the goldfinch in the porphyry track; Nor is there singing in the wildness While the earth sleeps alight in spice and meads.

With drooping branches, point to love: For here may come wet rain, a smoky night; And if the morn of flowers unlucky shrouds, Placing the petals still upon the boughs.

I wander through this night-mad festival, And in my dreams I hear what naught remains; I seek the dark’s good, fashion’s fair degrees, And the sweetness lingers on the breath of roses.

Nor breath nor wind will stir the silent night; Yet, when I bow, the petals fall, and sigh; And deep the jays within the dark will climb As rests the night on wings of prophecy.

• Alfred Lord Tennyson