Ethel Talbot Scheffauer

IN the dead city where the waning moon

Lights the strange faces of the carven kings

With subtle smiles, and curiously each rune

Upon the emeralds of their signet-rings

Paints with dull light—there upon each eyelid

The weary-footed Sleep sits sorrowful,

And calm upon the painted pyramid

The night-owl, with his blear eyes sad and dull

Keeps watch; and desert lions, hungry-eyed

Prowl through the palaces all pale with gold

Under the moon; where, even as they died

In some phantasmal ruin, centuries old,

Lie jewelled guards with golden scimitars

And glorious women, wound with green and red,

So beautiful and evil under the stars,

Not even the gray wolves rend them, fair and dead.