Pent in a garden of flowers; grown drunk with the wine of the rose,
In the damp gold cups of lilies the night moths make their homes;
And over the sodden grasses, where the squandering fountain flows,
From the mouth of the graven lion, the smell of the desert comes.
A boat goes up to Philae with a shadowy pointed sail;
The wind of muffled, valleys has sped the craft along,
From the deck a drift of laughter: then the slender reed pipes trail
Over the twilight waters a quivering link of song.
Figs that the red wasp harried, palms with their rasping sigh;
Owls by the Little Window where the grape vines stand;
But beyond the leafy ramparts, the Nile is wandering by,
And though I wade thro' grasses, my feet shall find the sand.
First published in The Australasian, 31 May 1924
