Sonnet XXII

My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,

Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older,

Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan,

Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder.

Whate'er its sense may mean, its age is

To that of priesthoods whose feet stood near God,

When knowledge was so great that 'twas a

And man's mere soul too man for its abode.

But when I ask what means that pageant

And would look at it suddenly,

I

The sense I had of seeing it, nor can

Again to look, nor hath my memory a use  That seems recalling, save that it recalls  An emptiness of having seen those walls.