NEVADA.

Sphinx, down whose rugged face The sliding centuries their furrows cleave By sun and frost and cloud-burst; scarce to leave Perceptible a trace Of age or sorrow; Faint hints of yesterdays with no to-morrow;— My mind regards thee with a questioning eye, To know thy secret, high.

If Theban mystery, With head of woman, soaring, bird-like wings And serpent's tail on lion's trunk, were things Puzzling in history; And men invented For it an origin which represented Chimera and a monster double-headed, By myths Phenician wedded—

Their issue being this— This most chimerical and wonderous thing 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!