Surely it is not my doing
That for love Spring is selected,
Evening star by love is chosen,
That the rose is lovers' flower,
Nightingale their sacred song-bird,
And the poets' song so gentle,
Lullaby is of their gladness
And the dirge of lovers' blisses.
Two old walls of gloomy ruins
As two sisters, self-embracing
Forward lean their aged arches.
Ivy grows from every crevice,
On the battlement, a hawthorne
And a rug of mossy verdure.
Grass between the stones has settled:
Downward hang dark blades so tender,
Playthings of the blowing breezes
As a woman's flowing tresses.
And within these saddened ruins
—formerly a famous cloister—
Gypsies have their camp erected.
23
