Ichabod

Near these islands a palace was built by a prince,
But its music and song have departed long since;
The hill-mists of morning sweep down on the halls,
At night the red curtains lie furled on the walls.
The clouds o'er the water their shadows still cast.
Things change like the stars: how few autumns have passed
And yet where is that prince? Where is he?
— No reply.
Save the plash of the stream rolling ceaselessly by.