Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass

A handful of red sand, from the hot climeOf Arab deserts brought,Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it beenAbout those deserts blown!How many strange vicissitudes has seen,How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the IshmaeliteTrampled and passed it o'er,When into Egypt from the patriarch's sightHis favorite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,Crushed it beneath their tread;Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the airScattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of NazarethHeld close in her caress,Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faithIllumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palmsPacing the Dead Sea beach,And singing slow their old Armenian psalmsIn half-articulate speech;

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gateWith westward steps depart;Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed!Now in this crystal towerImprisoned by some curious hand at last,It counts the passing hour,

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;Before my dreamy eyeStretches the desert with its shifting sand,Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,This little golden threadDilates into a column high and vast,A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,Across the boundless plain,The column and its broader shadow run,Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These walls againShut out the lurid sun,Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;The half-hour's sand is run!