To the Mummy of the Lady Isis

By George Sterling

In the Bohemian Club, San Francisco

No bird shall tell thee of the seasons' flight:
    Sealed are thine ears that now no longer list.
    The little veins of temple and of wrist
Are food no more for sleepless love's delight,
And crumbling in the sessions of thy night,
    Pylon and sphinx shall be as fleeting mist.
    Bitter with natron are the lips that kissed,
And shorn of dreams the spirit and the sight.

Ah! dust misused! better to feed the flow'r,
Than grace the revels of an alien hour,
    When babe or lord wake never to caress
        The bosom where unerring Death hath struck
        And milkless breasts that give the ages suck—
    Stilled in the slumber that is nothingness.

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