poetry form

with lips blood red and heart of stone
the pale day drowses on the western steep
soft as the bed in the earth
pharaoh, king of egypt's land
rocked in the cradle of the deep
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
on and on
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
backward, turn backward
is there anybody there
when the wind works against us in the dark
truely