XXII.My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older,Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan,Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder.Whate’er its sense may mean, its age is twinTo that of priesthoods whose feet stood near God,When knowledge was so great that ’twas a sinAnd man’s mere soul too man for its abode.But when I ask what means that pageant IAnd would look at it suddenly, I loseThe sense I had of seeing it, nor can tryAgain to look, nor hath my memory a useThat seems recalling, save that it recallsAn emptiness of having seen those walls.
My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older,Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan,Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder.Whate’er its sense may mean, its age is twinTo that of priesthoods whose feet stood near God,When knowledge was so great that ’twas a sinAnd man’s mere soul too man for its abode.But when I ask what means that pageant IAnd would look at it suddenly, I loseThe sense I had of seeing it, nor can tryAgain to look, nor hath my memory a useThat seems recalling, save that it recallsAn emptiness of having seen those walls.