I knelt in the sepulcher of a man;
His broken coffer wrought of rough-hewed stone
Stood sentinel betwixt a polished span
Of granite, laid bereft and all alone,
And of his name no dint nor breach began,
No epitaph, no garments and no bone,
So that I gazed upon that ancient plan
In askance if he ever called it home?
Above, the twilight stars he might have seen
Look down upon the miracle he made,
And of the earth and sky and all between
No rival kingly stone has yet been laid
To match the beauty of his desert queen,
Wherein still still may rest his mortal shade.