The rusty keys which their forefathers bore;
The keys of those shut doors which ne’er shall open more.
The doors are dust, but yet the hope lives on;
The walls are dust, but memories cannot die;
And still each sad-faced father tells his son
Of the lost homes, the blue Granadian sky,
The glory and the wrong of those old days gone by.
Ah, keys invisible of happy doors
Which long ago our own hands fastened tight!
We treasure them as do those hapless Moors,