Everything there was still just as it was in his infancy:--the busts of the great poets on the top of the book-cases, the wreaths in their glass cases, the jewels and statuettes, prizes for successful poems--were still in their crystal cabinets or resting on the same pedestals; the books in their resplendent bindings formed their customary close battalions the length of the bookcases.

But the whiteness of the busts had taken on the color of chocolate, the bronzes were reddened by oxidation, the gold had turned greenish, and the wreaths were losing their leaves.

It seemed as though ashes might have rained down upon perpetuity.
The occupants of this spell-bound dwelling presented the same aspect of neglect and deterioration.

Ulysses found the poet thin and yellow, with a long white beard, with one eye almost closed and the other very widely opened.

Upon seeing the young officer, broad-chested, vigorous and bronzed, Labarta, who was huddled in a great arm chair, began to cry with a childish hiccough as though he were weeping over the misery of human illusions, over the brevity of a deceptive life that necessitates continual renovation.
Ferragut found even greater difficulty in recognizing the little and shrunken senora who was near the poet.