“There. There’s one there that’s rather odd. It’s rotten poetry, but it gave me the oddest feelings when I wrote it. See if it does the same to you,” and he laughed.
There were three poems in Elizabeth’s lap. The first was a vigorous bit of work—a ballad with a good ballad swing to it. Elizabeth read it and applauded.
“This is much better than your old things,” she said, and he was manifestly pleased.
The next was a set of clever verses on a political topic of passing interest. Elizabeth laughed over it and laid it aside. Her thoughts were pleasantly diverted. Anything was welcome that brought her nearer to the David of the day.
She took up the third poem. It was called:
Egypt
Egypt sands are burning hot.
Burning hot and dry,
How they scorched us as we worked,
Toiling, you and I,