Young Tut-an-Khamen, poised upon his shallop,
Has speared a fish.
The goldsmith-sculptor sees the pose and molds it
No king could wish
A prettier immortality! Forever
In delicate grace
He tells of beauty dead yet never dying,
Winning his race
With haughty Death. Out of the dark tomb chamber
He seems to sing
Of joy in some predestinate hereafter
Worthy a king.
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