In a Garden of Granada
The city rumour rises all the day
Across the potted plants along the wall;
The sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway,
Tossing the dust and shadows in a squall.
The sun is old and weary—weary here
Upon the ageing roofs and miradors,
The broken terraces and basins drear
Where each old bell its ancient echoes pours.
Ringing—what memories to ring—to those
That linger here—the lizard and the cat,
That haunt these solitudes in state morose
Through the long day their silent habitat.
Untroubled,—save when in the moonlight steals
Some voice in song across the lower wall,
And sudden magic each old rafter feels,
The while the echoes round it rise and fall.
For as the wail of love or sorrow rings
Along the night soft steps are on the stair
And pathway; in the broken window wings
Are stirring, and white arms are lolling there.
And that old rose tree lifts its head anew,
And there is perfume o’er the hills afar,
From where Alhambra’s crescent cleaves the blue
To where agleam Genil and Darro are.
O Voice!—what is thy necromantic word
That all Granada waits adown the years?
Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?—
The cry of love amid the cry of tears?—
Thomas Walsh