Where Pyramids and temple-wrecks are piled 
Confusedly on camel-coloured sands, 
And the mute Arab motionlessly stands, 
Like some swart god who never wept or smiled,-- 
I picked up mummy relics of the wild 
(And sea-shells once with clutching baby hands), 
And felt a wafture from old Motherlands, 
And all the morning wonder of a Child 

To find Sphinx-money. So the Beduin calls 
Small fossils of the waste. Nay, poet's gold; 
'Twill give thee entrance to those rites of old, 
When hundred-gated Thebes, with storied walls, 
Gleamed o'er her Plain, and vast processions rolled 
To Amon-Ra through Karnak's pillared halls.