To the Nile

Son of the old moon-mountains African!Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!We call thee fruitful, and that very whileA desert fills our seeing's inward span;Nurse of swart nations since the world began,Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguileSuch men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan?O may dark fancies err! They surely do;'T is ignorance that makes a barren wasteOf all beyond itself. Thou dost bedewGreen rushes like our rivers, and dost tasteThe pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too,And to the sea as happily dost haste.