  These walls will not forget, through later days, How they had bloomed with lifted, tossing heads Of swaying girls who thronged these ordered ways Like windy tulips blowing in their beds. Stones may remember laughter down a hall, And eyes more bright than blossoms in the grass,— A dream to haunt them—after all and all— When they are dust with dusty things that pass. So that some wind of beauty, waking then, Whose breath shall be new summertimes for earth, Will stir these scattered stones to dreams, again, Of blowing shapes, of brightening eyes and mirth, And corridors, like windy tulip beds, Of swaying girls and beautiful, bright heads. |
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