Classic Poem

Take these few verses, all too idly done
In English, — pondering the weary while
Of English fields, and faces, and the smile
Of those we loved whose golden sands have run,
Of hopes that flowered not, duties scarce begun, —
Along the changeless banks of tawny Nile,
Or scanning Karnak's immemorial pile
Lit with the glory of the dying sun
My Poet sang them in a different scene,
Bright child of Paris, blent of joys and fears,
He loved, and sinned, and suffered, most serene
When winning most the poor man's mirth or tears:
Firmer perchance his footsteps would have been
With hands like yours to guide him down the years.