Nevada

Sphinx, down whose rugged faceThe sliding centuries their furrows cleaveBy sun, and frost, and cloudburst, scarce to leavePerceptible a traceOf age or sorrow;Faint hints of yesterdays with no tomorrow;—My mind regards thee with a questioning eye,To know thy secret, high.

If Theban mystery,With head of woman, soaring, birdlike wingsAnd serpent's tail on lion's trunk, were thingsPuzzling in history;And men inventedFor it an origin which representedChimera and a monster double-headed,By myths Phenician wedded—

Their issue being this—This most chimerical and wondrous thing,From whose dumb mouth not even the gods could wringTruth, nor anthithesis: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 yearnIn eager, panting haste,Grasping and losing,Still being deluded ever by our choosing,Answer us Sphinx: What is thy meaning doubleBut endless toil and trouble?

Inscrutable, men striveTo rend thy secret from thy rocky breast;Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's restFor hopes that cannot thrive;Whilst unrelenting,From thy unlovely 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 shadowy shrouds,Glad that the darkness barsThe day's suggestion—The endless repetition of one question;Glad that thy stony face I cannot see,Nevada—Mystery!

Shermantown, Nev., 1869.