When the bricks of these buildings were young,
when the songs of the years were yet unsung,
when wormwood waves lapped not these shores,
and the light danced glad through open doors;
it was then that fair Eden was found in your eyes,
with the music and fragrance of bright summer skies,
when apples and apricots swelled in the trees
and gardens were merry with the droning of bees;
but those windows are shuttered, the bricks are decayed,
the seas are now bitter, and summer delayed,
all the bees have departed, the gardens are bare,
and shadows and shriveled fruit only are there.
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