We knew for long the mansion's look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is ... Children,  
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems  
As if he that lived there left behind  
A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,  
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.