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Robert Laurence Binyon - In The British Museum
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Shafts of light, that poured from the August sun,
 Glowed on long red walls of the gallery cool;
 Fell upon monstrous visions of ages gone,
 Still, smiling Sphinx, winged and bearded Bull.

 With burnished breast of ebon marble, queen
 And king regarded full, from a tranquil brain
 Enthroned together, conquered Time; serene
 In spite of wisdom, and older than ancient pain.

 Hither a poor woman, with sad eyes, came,
 And vacantly looked around. The faces vast,
 Their strange motionless features, touched with flame,
 Awed her: in humble wonder she hurried past;

 And shyly beneath a sombre monument sought
 Obscurity; into the darkest shade she crept
 And rested: soon, diverted awhile, her thought
 Returned to its own trouble. At last she slept.

 Not long sweet sleep alone her spirit possest.
 A dream seized her: a solemn and strange dream.
 For far from home in an unknown land, opprest
 By burning sun, in the noon`s terrible beam

 She wandered; around her out of the plain arose
 Immense Forms, that high above her stared.
 Calm they seemed, and used to human woes;
 Silent they heard her sorrow, with ears prepared.

 Now like a bird, flitting with anxious wings,
 Imprisoned within some vast cathedral`s aisles,
 Hither and thither she flutters: to each she brings
 Her prayer, and is answered only with grave smiles.

 Indescribably troubled, ``Crush me,`` she cries,
 ``Speak, speak, or crush me!`` The lips are dumb.
 --She woke, no longer in shadow, the sun on her eyes,
 And sighed, and arose, and returned to her empty home.
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