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William Makepeace Thackeray

At the King's Gate.

And wild wet leaves against the pane.

The royal sleeper smiled and slept. "I thought that all things sweet were dead!"

They heard him say who came to wed The crown again to the king's head.

L Keys.

ONG ago in old Granada, when the moors were forced to flee, Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.

Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of Time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be, And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.

A BEGGAR sat at the king's gate And sang of summer in the rain- A song with sounds reverberate Of wood and hill and plain, That, rising, bore a tender weight Of sweetness, strong and passionate; A song with sigh of mountain pass, Ripple and rustle of deep grass, The whispering of wind-smote sheaves, Low lapping of long lily leaves, Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth, For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's / name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then, Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.

Red morns and purple-moonéd eves. "We are young!" we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee.

Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing The king was weary of his part, The king was tired of his crown; He looked across the rainy land, Across the barren stretch of sand, but the key!