The music of the violin
weeps down the troubled waters of the Nile.
If Time could reconcile
the Day, and spar with Night,
our sin would be the viol;
we'd only weep a while
if Time could reconcile.
If Time could reconcile? Ah me!
The dust lies on the cask of silent kings
like brothers bound and burdened - he
must reap her rusted trophy-things
and die immortally.
And die immortally, for Time
is but the coronet on Death's cold brow,
entombed and entreated;
nor can policy
much move the goddess seated in the stone.
She sits alone as he,
and Time shall speak for three;
the obelisk shall be
guarantor of inheritances sown
into the Sphinx, and we
shall see who is cheated
when Time her covenant shall disavow.