Classic Poem

I.

The hill-tops are fair in the bright, cloudless day,
The valleys are sweet with the blossoms of May;
I gaze from the cliff where my Castle shall stand —
The grandest and proudest of all in the land;

With turrets and columns of Parian white,
Blocks seamless and clear as if quarried from light;
With portal wide open to high arching hall,
And threshold emblazoning welcome to all.

No outlook so varied, no structure so fair;
Neither Norman nor Moorish with mine can compare:
The dreams of all artists from over the sea
Unite in one vision of beauty for me.

The richest wood-carvings from many a land,
The rarest of pictures are mine to command:
Ah, dreamer, whose vessels have voyaged in vain,
Come, visit my Castle from Castles in Spain.

II.

The glow on the hill-tops is fading away,
The valleys, all garnered, are russet and gray;
I gaze from the cliff where I stood the fair morn
When the rose-tinted dream of my Castle was born.

The turrets, the columns, the tapestries rare
Have faded and melted like mist in the air —
Impalpable, vain, mortised beams of moonshine!
The sun never shone on that Castle of mine.

Ah, well, but the ground-plot and title are clear
For others their Castles and mansions to rear;
While I keep in framework of old tarnished gilt
The Castle of mine that never was built.

The fireside is bright in a dear cottage home,
One chimney sufficing for turret and dome;
And, dreamer, your voyage has not been in vain
If you find at some hearth-stone your Castle in Spain.