The Sphinx

It is now forty years ago

 I stretched to her mine empty hand,

 Pilgrim in that waste land;

"Teach me," I prayed, "make me to know,

 Thou silent sitter in the sand!"

From out the gray waste, there,

Naught but the old unfathomed stare.

To-day I went, as long ago—

 My hair as gray as was the sand—

 A gift-rose in my hand.

"Speak not," I said; "I need not know.

 Does this aught understand?"

Shallowed the fathomless stare;

She smiled, the red thing was so fair.