Month after month the gathered rains descend
Drenching yon secret Aethiopian dells,
And from the desert’€™s ice-girt pinnacles
Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend.
Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwells
By Nile’€™s aereal urn, with rapid spells
Urging those waters to their mighty end.
O’€™er Egypt’€™s land of Memory floods are level
And they are thine, O Nile—and well thou knowest
That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil
And fruits and poisons spring where’€™er thou flowest.
Beware, O Man—for knowledge must to thee,
Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be.

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