Head of Ikhnaton
By HOWARD RAMSDEN
OUT of the welter of dispersing time
Some angel in destruction, some blind grace
That saves the lovely fragment, the torn rhyme,
Has kept the dauntless flower of your face. The lips are young and poised to soft desire —
Yours are the eyes that sought an unseen god,
The being past a meaning in this fire
That burned across your shoulders like a rod.
Some angel in destruction, some blind grace
That saves the lovely fragment, the torn rhyme,
Has kept the dauntless flower of your face. The lips are young and poised to soft desire —
Yours are the eyes that sought an unseen god,
The being past a meaning in this fire
That burned across your shoulders like a rod.
The temples crumble and the fanes go down;
The desert gates let in the drowning sand
To these who wore the cobra as a crown;
The cliff tombs gaze upon another land.
But still the nations fall before the One
Whom grave Ikhnaton saw beyond the sun.
The desert gates let in the drowning sand
To these who wore the cobra as a crown;
The cliff tombs gaze upon another land.
But still the nations fall before the One
Whom grave Ikhnaton saw beyond the sun.