Their breath is fragrance, sweet as wreath of bride,
In winter season as at summer tide.
AFTER APRIL 18, 1906.
Clothed with sack-cloth, strewn with ashes,
Seated on a desolate throne
'Mid the spectral walls of stately domes
And the skeletons of regal homes,
Francisco weeps while westward thrashes
Through the wrecks of mansions, stricken prone