SPHINX, THE
Out of the changeful fury of the tide-rifts streaming by
Wilt build thee, O world, a place of peace, and show God by and by?
Or all the riot of roses and the loves that escape control,
Are they rainbows shed on a melting cloud from the central sun of my soul?
O musical storms and stars, do ye strike wild chords unplanned?
Or is there a master-musician, who leads with uplifted hand?
If a God’s will shape the heavens, is He perfect, boundless, free?
Or feel He the bondage of violent dust? Does He suffer and strive like me?
I know that I never shall answer the riddles that haunt the mind,