THE DAUGHTER OF THE SPHINX
MY mind is a plain with blackened stalks
And the crumbling stones of a buried city,
Where hooded desolation walks,
And all alone in an empty sky
A solitary kite sails by.
But yet, because of the sudden pity
Of the youngest daughter of the sphinx,
Great Amnion on my burden winks
And I have found — ah, none too soon!
A little pallid petalled flower.
Hid in the dust of a fallen tower.
With a phantom lustre like the moon;
And now I can watch the kite sail by,
And the long, long shadows among the stones,
And the blackened stalks and the empty sky,
And the wind-blown dust of ancient bones.
With strange exultant serenity,
And across that plain which is my soul,
Soft incense-clouds of healing roll
With balm, and the breath of a whispered spell,
And an opiate-rain ineffable.
For on him whose mind is scarred deep.
With secrets sad as the dead who sleep.
On him whose soul is a buried city.
The daughter of the sphinx has pity.
