We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?