Chapter III

You sometime make me dream of fair Granada,
Of olden days of Moorish reign and glory;
At other times you make me feel the gloom
Of Christian Spain, sepulchral and morose.

You are as the Alhambra when you smile,
Gold-tinted, graceful, radiating joy.
But when you frown or are indifferent,
Then like to the Escurial you are,
Depressing, full of sombreness and chill.