POEMS. THE SPHINX. THE Sphinx is drowsy, Her wings are furled; Her ear is heavy, She broods on the world. 'Who 'll tell me my secret, The ages have kept? I awaited the seer, While they slumbered and slept; The fate of the man-child; The meaning of man; Known fruit of the Unknown; Dædalian plan; Out of sleeping a waking, Out of waking a sleep; Life death overtaking; Deep underneath deep? 'Erect as a sunbeam, Upspringeth the palm; The elephant browses, In beautiful motion The thrush plies his wings; Kind leaves of his covert Your silence he sings. 'The waves, unashamed, The journeying atoms, Primordial wholes, Firmly draw, firmly drive, 'Sea, earth, air, sound, silence, Plant, quadruped, bird, By one music enchanted, One deity stirred, Night veileth the morning, "The babe by its mother Lies bathed in joy; Glide its hours uncounted, The sun is its toy; Shines the peace of all being, Without cloud, in its eyes; And the sum of the world In soft miniature lies. 'But man crouches and blushes, He creepeth and peepeth, Jealous glancing around, He poisons the ground. 'Out spoke the great mother, Beholding his fear; At the sound of her accents Cold shuddered the sphere:"Who has drugged my boy's cup? Who has mixed my boy's bread ? Who, with sadness and madness, Has turned my child's head?" I heard a poet answer, Aloud and cheerfully, 'Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirges Are pleasant songs to me. Deep love lieth under These pictures of time; They fade in the light of Their meaning sublime. "The fiend that man harries Is love of the Best; Yawns the pit of the Dragon, Lit by rays from the Blest. |