Though thou art now a ruin bare and cold, 
Thou wert sometime the garden of a king. 
The birds have sought a lovelier place to sing. 
The flowers are few. It was not so of old. 
It was not thus when hand in hand there strolled 
Through arbors perfumed with undying Spring 
Bare bodies beautiful, brown, glistening, 
Decked with green plumes and rings of yellow gold. 
Do you suppose the herdsman sometimes hears 
Vague echoes borne beneath the moon's pale ray 
From those old, old, far-off, forgotten years? 
Who knows? Here where his ancient kings held sway 
He stands. Their names are strangers to his ears. 
Even their memory has passed away.