Sand of the Desert In an Hour-Glass Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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A handful of red sand, from the hot clime
         Of Arab deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
         The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been
         About those deserts blown!
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
         How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite
         Trampled and passed it o'er,
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
         His favorite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
         Crushed it beneath their tread;
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air
         Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
         Held close in her caress,
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith
         Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
         Pacing the Dead Sea beach,
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms
         In half-articulate speech;