 | Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay |  |
Anno Domini 10. Nine years later.
Now the steady hand of Thoth was trembling—
The artist, king of magic and miracle,—
Physician, healer, merciful, at last.
He touched her shrivelled hands with reverent love.
He touched her gilded eyelids and strained arms.
He loosed the mummy bands from thigh and heart.
Singing from the ancient Book of the dead,
“Lift up thy head, oh thou who liest prostrate.”
The artist, king of magic and miracle,—
Physician, healer, merciful, at last.
He touched her shrivelled hands with reverent love.
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He loosed the mummy bands from thigh and heart.
Singing from the ancient Book of the dead,
“Lift up thy head, oh thou who liest prostrate.”
And she was again held upright by Anubis,
A speaking mummy, transfigured, and not dying.
And she stood pitifully by Cæsar, there,
Half-mummy, but half-god: and beautiful—
A soul indeed—a human soul at last—
The Macedonian glory in her face,
Flowering toward Egyptian resurrection.
A speaking mummy, transfigured, and not dying.
And she stood pitifully by Cæsar, there,
Half-mummy, but half-god: and beautiful—
A soul indeed—a human soul at last—
The Macedonian glory in her face,
Flowering toward Egyptian resurrection.
| Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | |