Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the
sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are
broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage
and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old
recollections.
The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the
gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you
touch it, the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through
a chink in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky
toward the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct.