From whose dumb mouth not even the gods could wring
Truth, nor antithesis:
Then, what I think is,
This creature—being chief among men's sphinxes—
Is eloquent, and overflows with story,
Beside thy silence hoary!
Nevada!—desert waste!
Mighty, and inhospitable, and stern;
Hiding a meaning over which we yearn
In eager, panting haste—
Grasping and losing,
Still being deluded ever by our choosing—
Answer us Sphinx: What is thy meaning double
But endless toil and trouble?
Inscrutable, men strive
To rend thy secret from thy rocky breast;
Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's rest
For hopes that cannot thrive;
Whilst unrelenting,
Upon thy mountain throne, and unrepenting,
Thou sittest, basking in a fervid sun,
Seeing or hearing none.
I sit beneath thy stars,
The shallop moon beached on a bank of clouds—;
And see thy mountains wrapped in shadowed shrouds,
Glad that the darkness bars
The day's suggestion—
The endless repetition of one question;
Glad that thy stony face I cannot see,
Nevada—Mystery!
