From what strange tomb is thy strange knowledge blown,
Borne on the wings of what Chimaera's brood?
Thine is her secret whom the Serpent wooed,
And his who kindled passion in a stone.
Art thou her child, whom Egypt calls her own,
Her lore's gray guardian hewn in granite rude?
Has she, perchance, in a maternal mood,
Revealed to thee her musings vast and lone?

Indifferent of things human and the years,
Cerebral still and granite still, she blinks
Through half-closed lids perennially wise...
But thou, O virgin daughter of the Sphinx,
Grant God that Love may scorch thee with his tears,
And kiss her ancient wisdom from thine eyes!