Sonnet XXII

My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man, Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older, Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan, Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder. Whate'er its sense may mean, its age is twin To that of priesthoods whose feet stood near God, When knowledge was so great that 'twas a sin And man's mere soul too man for its abode. But when I ask what means that pageant I And would look at it suddenly, I lose The sense I had of seeing it, nor can try Again to look, nor hath my memory a use That seems recalling, save that it recalls An emptiness of having seen those walls.