When the walls were red

   That now are seen

   To be overspread

   With a mouldy green,

   A fresh fair head

   Would often lean

   From the sunny casement

   And scan the scene,

While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.

   But storms have raged

   Those walls about,

   And the head has aged

   That once looked out;

   And zest is suaged

   And trust is doubt,

   And slow effacement

   Is rife throughout,

While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!