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