Fantastic sleep is busy with my eyes; I seem in some waste solitude to stand Once ruled of Cheops; upon either hand A dark illimitable desert lies, Sultry and still -- a zone of mysteries. A wide-browed Sphinx, half buried in the sand, With orbless sockets stares across the land, The wofulest thing beneath these brooding skies Save that loose heap of bleachèd bones, that lie Where haply some poor Bedouin crawled to die. Lo! while I gaze, beyond the vast sand-sea The nebulous clouds are downward slowly drawn, And one bleared star, faint glimmering like a bee, Is shut in the rosy outstretched hand of Dawn.