By George Sterling

"The Bones of Agamemnon are a show!"
    And only yesterday I held in hand
    That fossil resin from the Baltic strand—
The Miocene in mimic afterglow;
And there, distinct from mandible to toe,
    Perfect as on the day when last he crawled,
    An iridescent beetle widely sprawled,
Caught in that golden gum so long ago.

On some fine morning of the perilled Past,
    He had gone forth so bravely (say, alone,
On his adventure), thorny and cuirassed,
    Eager, perhaps, to win a scarab-throne,
    But found a fate not all unlike our own,
Whom custom's pale viscidities hold fast.

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