How did the Moorish Sultans keep their comforts
When winter stormed their Alhambra palace?
How many harem girls, shivering in silks,
Squeezed into the imperial bed beside their lord,
As the ice-wind from the Sierra Nevada
Froze the fountains and whipped through the traceries
That proclaim ‘The Only Conqueror is God’?
Today, in Grenada, and in cold village doorways
Sun-browned old men stand amazed at the snow
Or huddle in bars to view weather reports,
While down in the terraced citrus groves
Frost-bitten trees have shed their cargoes
And stand embarrassed in the bright litter
Of deliquescent oranges and lemons
Slowly being obliterated by the snow.