The language of regret

At entertaining unawares

The famed Alhambra Pet.

But still not quite incognito

I mark the moving scene,

In a tepid zone where (like my own)

The palms are ever green,

And find myself reported as

A herald of the Queen.

55

55

Here where aloft the heavens are blue,

And blue the seas below,

I roll my eye and fondly try

To get the rhymes to go,

As I pace The Garden that I love,

Composing all I know.

But when my poet-pinions droop,

And all the air is wan,

I enter in to the courts of sin

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