The moving hours move slowly by the palms.
The lazy Nile laps softly as it flows.
An Arab girl, a flagon in her arms,
Slowly fills it and as slowly she goes,
The sun sets scarlet on the desert arch
And lets the moon creep out with quiet grace;
He goes to watch the tramping armies march
And rise again with blood smeared on his face.
A noising band breaks sudden on the air,
A twinkling light confides with twinkling light;
A drunken son is blared forth here and there.
Should this be Egypt? This be Egypts night?
The riddle of the ancient Sphinx is dead,
And wisdom, head-bowed, slowly creeps to bed.
