I know a royal castle-builder. He
Has planned (in clouds) a house beyond compare,
And furnished it with treasures passing rare
Gathered from distant lands across the sea.
Fountains gush forth; and many a curious tree
Shadows rich lawns broidered with bright parterre
Of scented shrubs and flow'rs. And birds are there
Well skilled in notes of sylvan minstrelsy.
Closed is the door. Unopened are the gates.
The blossoms droop, and eke the birds are dumb,
The builder sadly sits as one who waits
For some loved friend — alas! who does not come.
In his fair mansion will he ever dwell?
One little maid — and only she — can tell.
