Nocturne, Op. 60: Slow and regular

She sleeps on soft last breaths, but no ghost looms

Out of the stillness of her palace wall

Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms

She dreams of golden gardens and sweet blooms

Not marvelling why her roses never fall

Nor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms

The shades keep down which well might roam her hall

Quiet their blood lies in her crimson rooms

And she is not afraid of their footfall

They move not from her tapestries, their pall

Nor pace her terraces, their hecatombs

Lest aught she be disturbed or grieved at all