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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
Thy towers far-gazing see but woe. Thy river,
Old Guadalever, from its course is bent,
And all those watery ministers of thine
Far-sluiced behold their channels choked with mud;
Dried are the gardens green that sucked their freshness:
The wolf and the wild boar root thy plantains down;
Thy fields are baked like clay.
Old Guadalever, from its course is bent,
And all those watery ministers of thine
Far-sluiced behold their channels choked with mud;
Dried are the gardens green that sucked their freshness:
The wolf and the wild boar root thy plantains down;
Thy fields are baked like clay.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |