Of Cordova in dreams it brought.
You think that once again it calms
My mood to watch beneath the palms
The ancient river[3] freshly lave
Rome’s ruined bridge[3] that naught could save.
You think, once more, my wonder wends
Across that orange-court[4] and bends
In that cathedral-mosk,[5] in which
A thousand[5] shafts with sculptures rich
Surround the soul like ghosts of trees