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,