And if we demons have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
False stirring of the labored air
Has never proved a body there;
Nor in the day nor in the shade
A vestige of the truth unmade,
But bloody thoughts and dreams
Oft lend life more than it seems,
And all that we have ruined and wrought
Might from an empty purse be bought.
As dreams can live, so might they die --
As life, a lie within a lie.
