Of many a satrapy of ancient rhyme,
And in its carven corridors shall Time
Display us trophies of a dead delight:
The damascene of armour in the dusk,
Shadows of banners torn from infidels,
The fragments of an unremembered glory,
Fragrant with faint, imperishable musk
Of Moorish fantasy. Dissolve, ye spells!
Open, ye portals of Castilian story!
L. S.