To the Nile

SON of the old moon-mountains African  Chief of the Pyramid and crocodile!            We call thee fruitful, and that very while,                                                                     A desert fills our seeing’s inward span;     Nurse of swart notions since the worls began,                                                                    Art thou so fruitful? Or dost thou beguile   Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,                                                               Rest for a space ‘twixt Cairo and Decan?    O may dark fancies err! They surely do;     ‘Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste   Of all beyond itself, thou dost bedew         Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste                                                                        The pleasant sun-rise, green isles hast thou too,                                                               And to the sea as happily dost haste 
                        – John Keats

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