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From the Rock Island Argus, May 25, 1915. By Bessie Chandler.

Long ago in old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key;
Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
Should return from their long exile to their homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
Vanished, as the years rolled onward, ‘neath the crumbling touch of time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
And through all life’s changing phases ever fast we hold the key;
Our fair country lies behind us, we are exiles, too, in truth,
For no more shall we behold her—our Granada’s name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when now and then
Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.
“We are young!” we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee;
Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key.

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