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 What next did you do? Did you transmigrate?

Have we seen you since, all modern and fresh?

Your charming soul—so I calculate—

Mislaid its mummy, and sought new flesh.

Were you she whom I met at dinner last week,

With eyes and hair of the Ptolemy black,

Who still of this find in the Fayoum would speak,

And to Pharaohs and scarabs still carry us back?

A scent of lotus about her hung,

And she had such a far-away wistful air

As of somebody born when the Earth was young;

And she wore of gilt slippers a lovely pair.

Perchance you were married? These might have been

Part of your trousseau—the wedding-shoes;

And you laid them aside with the garments green,

And painted clay Gods which a bride would use: