It seems the world I loved so well,
But late, too soon has passed away,
And that the tower in which I dwell
Collapsed around me yesterday.
The soil in which mimosa stands
Has marked his timid, prayerful hands,
And autumn comes to summer's glade
To cover all in spreading shade.
The sweet schoolmaster of my skill
Has seen the sacred bridges fall,
And I, a trump at Roncesvalles,
Bear witness to a darker will --
Of fountain waters run to sour
And spoil, beside an ivied bower.
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