I saw in dreams a broken tower restored:
the sun-bleached ruin in painted splendour shone,
the vaulted ceilings rayed with stars, the crown
unmarred by bloody strife. The civil wars
were yet to come; resplendent noble lords
and ladies in their finery that doom
could not forestall. No harper's pleasing croon
could lull to peace those Westmen's covetous hearts.
And now, amidst the vines and knotted roots,
no trace of feasts on wine or meat endures,
and broken stand the courts where once our kings
luxurious carpets tread with velvet shoes.
That garb has rotted save in sepulchres
where swords and corslets lay, now useless things.
