To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

MER-EN-MUT

"WHAT a delicate odor of spice!" I said And I looked where the cloths they had just unwrapped Left bare the blackened form of the dead — Three thousand years since her life had speed!

Faint as the dying notes of a lute When the fingers have ceased to touch the strings! What had sound or scent to do with that mute Dry dust — the life-tree's Dead-Sea fruit!

It came like the subtile half-unguessed Mixture of unknown memories That thrill our minds with a vague unrest At the thought of some long-lost dear heart's guest.

And across my soul came the dream of the scent Of violets there in my escritoire — Violets she gave me once while I bent My face o'er her fingers, quite content.

And the dream-scent seemed in a strange dim way Like the dead sweet scent of a mummied love. Will it rise again at the Last Great Day With the princess here? Shall the wise dare say!

1887.