THE ruined steps, half-buried in the ground,
Moss, and a rose-tree labyrinth invade,
Whose full-blown blossoms by the wind are swayed,
Whose stems are by dark, quivering ivy bound. And when our hands touched the old balustrade,
We found it soft and smooth; and with no sound
We trod o'er strown rose-petals all around,
Our feet above them glided, half afraid. And so, a pair that dreamed or sang, we clomb
Never the steps unto that ancient home,
Save with uncertain feet on stones long crumbling; And the dwelling seemed a broken heart, with lone
Threshold o'er-run with flowers and ruin-strown,
Where Joy and Love can only enter stumbling.