Beloved of the Sun, and bereft of the rain;
The one weird land where the wild winds blowing,
Sweep with a wail o’er the plains of the dead,
A ruin, ancient beyond all knowing,
Rears its head
“On the cañon’s side, in the ample hollow,
That the keen winds carved in ages past,
The Castle walls, like the nest of a swallow
Have clung and have crumbled to this at last.
The ages since man’s foot has rested