O glad girls’ faces, hushed and fair! how shall I sing for ye?
For the grave picture of a sphinx is all that I can see.
Vain is the driving of the sand, and vain the desert's art;
The years strive with her, but she holds the lion in her heart.
Baffled or fostered, patient still, the perfect purpose clings;
Flying or folded, strong as stone, she wears the eagle's wings.
Eastward she looks; against the sky the eternal morning lies;
Silent or pleading, veiled or free, she lifts the woman's eyes.
O grave girls’ faces, listening kind! glad will I sing for ye,
While the proud figure of the sphinx is all that I can see.