’Neath dusk and silver blooms of blossoming trees.
They closed the echoing doors, and bore away the keys.
Palace and pleasure-garden are forgot;
The marble walls have crumbled long ago;
Their site, their ownership, remembered not,
And helpless wrath alike and hopeless woe
Are cooled and comforted by Time’s all-healing flow.
But still the children of those exiled Moors,
A sad transplanted stem on alien shore,
Keep as their trust—and will while time endures—