O treacherous scent, O thorny sight,
O tangle of world’s wrong and right,
What art thou ’gainst my armour’s gleam
But dusky cobwebs of a dream?

Beat down, deep sunk from every gleam
Of hope, they lie and dully dream;
Men once, but men no more, that Love
Their waste defeated hearts should move.

Here sleeps the world that would not love!
Let it sleep on, but if He move
Their hearts in humble wise to wait
On his new-wakened fair estate.

O won at last is never late!
Thy silence was the voice of fate;
Thy still hands conquered in the strife;
Thine eyes were light; thy lips were life. 

William Morris

poisoned-apple:

The fateful slumber floats and flows / About the tangle of the rose. / But lo the fated hand and heart / To rend the slumberous curse apart.
The threat of war the hope of peace / The Kingdoms peril and increase / Sleep on and bide the latter day / When fate shall take his chain away.
The maiden plaisance of the land / Knoweth no stir of voice or hand / No cup the sleeping waters fill / The restless shuttle lieth still.
Here lies the hoarded love the key / To All the treasure that shall be / Come fated heart the gift to take / And smite the sleeping world awake.

“The Legend of Briar Rose” paintings by Edward Burne-Jones, poem by William Morris.