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Who Guessed Amiss the Riddle of the Sphinx
In the night my great swamp-willow fell. Thad run home early, dark by five, To find the young sphinx and the hearth swept bare By the lazy thrashing of her tail. A scraping on my window woke me late. Circling those roots aghast in air I asked of wind, of rottenness the cause, As yet unaware of having forgotten Her yellow gaze unwinking, vertical pupil, Stiff wing, dark nipple, firelit paws -All that the odor of my palm brings back Hiding my face, beside the boughs Whose tall believed exuberance fallen, Bug goes witless, liquors lack, Profusion riddled to its core of dream Dies, whispering names. She only from the dead flames rose, Had licked my fingers but sweet milk disdained. Henceforth, bareness extreme, No more this hand has branchings of a tree.