Mouth of all sweets, whose sweetness sips
Its tribute honey from all hives,
The sweetest of the sweetest lives,
Soft flowers and little children's lips;
Yet rather learnt its heavenly smile
From sorrow, God's divinest art,
Sorrow that breaks and breaks the heart,
Yet makes a music all the while.
Ah! what is that within your eyes,
Upon your lips, within your hair,
The sacred art that makes you fair,
The wisdom that hath made you wise?
Tell me your secret, Sphinx,--for mine!--
The mystic word that from afar
God spake and made you rose and star,
The _fiat lux_ that bade you shine.
While Antony read, Beatrice's face grew sadder and sadder. When he had
finished she said:--
"It is very beautiful, Antony--but it is not written for me."
"What can you mean, Beatrice? Who else can it be written for?"
"To the Image of me that you have set up in my place."
"Beatrice, are you going mad?"
"It is quite true, all the same. Time will show. Perhaps you don't know
it yourself as yet, but you will before long."
"But, Beatrice, the poem shows its own origin.
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