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 In his house by the Maes, with its roof of tiles

And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town,

Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, The old sea-captain, hale and brown,

Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his grey mustachio lurks

Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain,

And the listed tulips look like Turks,

And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen.

The windmills on the outermost

Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maes.

But when the winter rains begin,

He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine

Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in colour and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light.

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