THE GENERALIFE

Alone it stands, an idle heap of dust,
The dreamland Arab palace on its hill;
And should Boabdil, its old lord, come still,
His grief would find an equal in its rust.

The sweet Granada spring herself doth trust
Ungrudging here, and her green charms fulfil;
The fountains play, and dream would have its will
Over the perfumes spilled on every gust.

Who in this gracious tower-retreat, remote,
Could muse an hour upon the languid charm
Of beauty and the smiling thought of love,

And find not through his drowsy senses float
Another voice that sounds the soft alarm
Of tears, as in the nightingale's full throat?