Sphinx of the North, with subtler smile
    Than hers who in the yellow South,
    With make-believe mysterious mouth,
  Deepens the ennui of the Nile;

  And, with no secret left to tell,
    A worn and withered old coquette,
    Dreams sadly that she draws us yet,
  With antiquated charm and spell: 

  Tell me your secret, Sphinx,—­for mine!—­
    What means the colour of your eyes,
    Half innocent and all so wise,
  Blue as the smoke whose wavering line

  Curls upward from the sacred pyre
    Of sacrifice or holy death,
    Pale twisting wreaths of opal breath,
  From fire mounting into fire.

  What is the meaning of your hair? 
    That little fairy palace wrought
    With many a grave fantastic thought;
  I send a kiss to wander there,

  To climb from golden stair to stair,
    Wind in and out its cunning bowers,—­
    O garden gold with golden flowers,
  O little palace built of hair!

  The meaning of your mouth, who knows? 
    O mouth, where many meanings meet—­
    Death kissed it stern, Love kissed it sweet,
  And each has shaped its mystic rose.

  Mouth of all sweets, whose sweetness sips
    Its tribute honey from all hives,
    The sweetest of the sweetest lives,
  Soft flowers and little children’s lips;

  Yet rather learnt its heavenly smile
    From sorrow, God’s divinest art,
    Sorrow that breaks and breaks the heart,
  Yet makes a music all the while.

  Ah! what is that within your eyes,
    Upon your lips, within your hair,
    The sacred art that makes you fair,
  The wisdom that hath made you wise?

  Tell me your secret, Sphinx,—­for mine!—­
    The mystic word that from afar
    God spake and made you rose and star,
  The fiat lux that bade you shine.

While Antony read, Beatrice’s face grew sadder and sadder.  When he had finished she said:—­

“It is very beautiful, Antony—­but it is not written for me.”

“What can you mean, Beatrice?  Who else can it be written for?”

“To the Image of me that you have set up in my place.”

“Beatrice, are you going mad?”

“It is quite true, all the same.  Time will show.  Perhaps you don’t know it yourself as yet, but you will before long.”

“But, Beatrice, the poem shows its own origin.  Has your image blue eyes, or curiously coiled hair—­”

“Oh, yes, of course, you thought of me.  You filled in from me.  But the inspiration, the wish to write it, came from the image—­”

“It is certainly true that I love to look at it, as I love to look at a picture of you—­because it is you—­”

“As yet, no doubt, but you will soon love it for its own sake.  You are already beginning.”

“I love an image!  You are too ridiculous, Beatrice.”