A wooden plough, a brown rug, and a net,

Covering a shining body dark as jet,

Mere bone and sinew, trudging home to sleep

On cowdung floor, a weary, bundled heap.

Yet go his dreams, per chance, to old Lagash,

Left when his venturous forbears took the seas;

And some dull feeling starts again the lash

On those proud towers and lordly terraces.

Of such a race was Adam, doctors say,

And his great sons, Sumeria’s ancient Kings;

And watching him I wonder at the way

Mankind has wandered since those far-off things.