The Guardians of the Place

About the old deserted place, So long forsaken and forlorn, There lingers still a touch of grace, A fragrance every year new-born.

For lilacs there in Spring unfold Beside the long unopened door, Communion still they seem to hold With those who come and go no more.

Against the window-frame they lean, Their banners floating to the air, And spread their arms as if to screen The silent shadows lurking there.

Pale spires uplifted to the sun Break into bloom as if to fill, In memory of days long done, The empty place with fragrance still.

As if with beauty they would hide The fallen fortunes of the race, Still cherishing with love and pride The old traditions of the place.

So year by year they closer press, And every season slowly spread, Praising with silent loveliness The unknown, long-forgotten dead.