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Edith Nesbit - The Sphinx
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THIS mystery of golden hair, 
Of eyes and lips and bosom fair, 
Is not--if one could really see-- 
Mere flesh and blood, like you and me: 
This is a sphinx whose still lips say 
This one thing ever, day by day, 
To all who cross her in life`s ways: 
`Which is the way to love?` she says. 


For every man who meets her eyes 
In their deep depths the question lies; 
And vainly would he seek to fly 
Or put the wordless challenge by, 
Unless within his soul be set 
Some true-love vow as amulet: 
This clasping, let him flee her spell, 
Nor trust its guardian powers too well. 


Nothing seems good to think about 
But just to find that secret out; 
We bring her fruits of earnest hours, 
And offer choice of passion-flowers, 
Of crowns, of heart`s blood, of heart`s ache, 
Our hopes we spurn, our joys forsake, 
While she looks down upon our pain 
Without compassion or disdain. 


She does not will to question thus-- 
Fate made her just to torture us; 
Nor can she tell you, if she will, 
Aught of your guesses, good or ill. 
But if you fail to answer well, 
Your own foiled heart prepares your hell, 
And all your days you walk alone, 
And curse the done and the undone. 


She does not bid you for her sake 
Your soul to wreck, your life to break, 
Nor would she choose it for her part. 
Only for ever in your heart 
The haunting question must abide, 
And clamour morn and eventide, 
Until no single note your ear 
Of all life`s harmonies can hear. 


Yet to some man it will be given 
To find the key that opens heaven; 
For him, beloved by all the Fates, 
Answer as well as question waits 
In those unwakened eyes of hers, 
And when their calm that answer stirs, 
From her stone sleep the sphinx will wake 
Into a woman, for his sake. 


What though one`s whole life`s light grows night 
With that unanswered question`s blight? 
One`s one poor chance is richly worth 
The richest certainties of earth! 
Myself would rather die, I know-- 
Starved, just because I want her so-- 
Than feast in highest heaven of bliss 
On any other woman`s kiss. 


Such spells she has, I would not choose 
One look or touch of hers to lose, 
Though every touch and look have power 
To sting me to my dying hour; 
Though every breath of hers should bring 
Frost on life`s bud and blossoming, 
What soul could ask a dearer death 
Than to be withered by her breath?
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