THE NORTHERN SPHINX Antony had not written a poem to his wife since their little girl Wonder had been born, now some four years ago.

Surely it was from no lack of love, this silence, but merely due to the working of what would seem to be a law of the artistic temperament: that to turn a muse into a wife, however long and faithfully loved, is to bid good-bye to the muse.

But a day or two after the coming of Silencieux, Antony found himself suddenly inspired once more to sing of his wife.

It was the best poem he had written for a long time, and when it was finished, he came down the wood impatient to read it to Beatrice.

This was the poem, which he called "The Northern Sphinx":-- 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.