Yes, one can forget even now in the hall of the temple of Isis, where
the capricious graces of color, where, like old and delicious music in
the golden strings of a harp, dwells a something--what is it? A murmur,
or a perfume, or a breathing?--of old and vanished years when forsaken
gods were worshipped. And one can forget in the chapel of Hathor, on
whose wall little Horus is born, and in the grey hounds' chapel beside
it. One can forget, for one walks in beauty.
Lovely are the doorways in Philae, enticing are the shallow steps that
lead one onward and upward; gracious the yellow towers that seem to
smile a quiet welcome. And there is one chamber that is simply a place
of magic--the hall of the flowers.
It is this chamber which always makes me think of Philae as a lovely
temple of dreams, this silent, retired chamber, where some fabled
princess might well have been touched to a long, long sleep of
enchantment, and lain for years upon years among the magical
flowers--the lotus, and the palm, and the papyrus.
In my youth it made upon me an indelible impression. Through intervening
years, filled with many new impressions, many wanderings, many visions
of beauty in other lands, that retired, painted chamber had not faded
from my mind--or shall I say from my heart? There had seemed to me
within it something that was ineffable, as in a lyric of Shelley's there
is something that is ineffable, or in certain pictures of Boecklin,
such as "The Villa by the Sea.
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