Hathor

I sit beneath my fig-tree, while my kine 
Pasture around me drowsily, knee-deep 
In lilies, chewing sweetest cud of sleep, 
While I sing softly to this wheel of mine. 
A skein of many-coloured threads I twine 
And know not why: nor why indeed I sing 
Low, as the bees do in their wandering 
From lotus unto lotus round my shrine. 
My light is only sunset's: it burns low 
And lower yet these seasons till I dread 
The darkness creeping on me from the skies. 
I loved the full fair nights of long ago 
When Sphinx and Sekhet worked their mysteries! 
Then I rocked Horus: now I rock the dead.