Down by the son, beside the pilgrim dunes,
Down by the low strand where the waves have strife,
We wove ourselves a little roll of runes,
To lull our spirits from the jar of life:
Sometimes the north-wind cut us like a knife,
Sometimes wild Euros blinded us with spray,
But always Ocean with his changing tunes
Made measure with each cadence of our lay.

And one day, wandering vacant on the strand,
A little child, whose name shall yet be known,
Culling strange forms and pebbles from the sand,
Put in my hand a wonderful red stone; —

A jasper fragment of some ancient rock,
Shaped like the Sphinx, expression just the same, —
A Nubian face, as 't were a half-hewn block
Before the finish of the master came.

The heavy head-gear, with its fold and fall,
Recalling Dante's hood; the drowsy lid,
As if weighed down with frequent funeral,
Dead to the presence as a pyramid;

A look of quietude, that seemed to say,
" Labor no more! the time is come for rest;
Thy life is with past people and the day
Slow closing on thy vision in the west.

" Of labors profitless in days gone by
There lives no record; nor shall there be end
Of toils for men hereafter. Only I
Have done with labor and would be thy friend. "

" Labor no more! " (The jasper head to me
Spoke in the pauses of the noisy night.)
" Labour no more! Thou hear'st the restless sea:
The world's great work is doing, with might, with might!

" Ships pass and vanish, laden with desire,
Carrying to every clime their trade and cares,
And black sea-chariots with their freight of fire
The breath of water o'er the water bears:

" The mowers in the marsh, with scythe and wains,
Their aftermath are rescuing from the tide,
And the moss-gatherers from the autumn rains
Their ocean-harvest under canvas hide:

" And boys are in the woods for nuts and birds, —
Plenty of people doing earthly things!
But for thyself, the wisest of all words
Is " Work no longer." 'T is the Sphinx that sings. "