The ghosts that come from out the years,
Dream-winged and purged of passion's fears,
Troop round me now as oft before,
In love to lead my footsteps o'er
The paths my heart of heart endears.

What hope-wreathed joy on joy appears,
What bloomy cheeks no anguish sears,
What vasty skies wherein to soar,
O time of old!

Their voices die upon mine ears,
I cry to them, but no one hears,
While other ghosts around me pour-
The ghosts of Now that madly roar,
And mock my unrelieving tears,
O time of old!


Upon the tower's battlements, all silent she,
The Queen, with radiant locks that fillets closely bind,
Allured by perfume's spells full troublous to the mind,
Feels mounting in her heart Love's vast, unresting sea.

Beneath her violet eyes, moveless, to dream resigned,
She sinks into her cushion's softly-sheltering nest,
While necklaces of gold deep heaving on her breast
Bespeak her languishment and fevers unconfined.

The monumental stones day's last rose-tints o'erspread;
The eve in velvety shade is to enchantment wed;
While meantime as far distant cry the crocodiles,

The Queen, with fingers clinched, sobbing her heart away,
Thrills to the bone to feel the artful, prurient wiles
Of hands that in the wind with all her tresses play.

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