Sharp sands, those blind desert horsemen, sweep
Where yesterday tall shining carvels
Swam in thy golden past. What Fate foretells
That now the winds go lightly, lest thy sleep
Be broken? Where once thy splendors rose,
And cast their banners bright against the sky,
Now go the empty years infinitely
Rich with thy ghosts. So is it: who sows
The seed of Fame, makes the grain for Death to reap.
Wanderers, with faces sharp as spears,
And flocks and herds on aimless muffled feet
Drift where glittering kings went through each street
Of thy white vanished cities, and the years
Have closed like walls behind them. Still
Through the spawn of lesser destinies,
We stare, where once thy stars burned, lest like these,
We lose faith. They know thee not, nor will
To see thy magic empire when the Hand
Thrusts back the curtain of the shifting sand,
On singing stars and lifting golden hill.
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