When the walls were red
        That now are seen
        To be overspread
        With a mouldy green,
        A fresh fair head
        Would often lean
        From the sunny casement
        And scan the scene,
While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.

        But storms have raged
        Those walls about,
        And the head has aged
        That once looked out;
        And zest is suaged
        And trust is doubt,
        And slow effacement
        Is rife throughout,
While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!