Sandburg imagines the Sphinx as a creature of absolute stillness, sitting for thousands of years without a whisper. Crowds of questioners pass by, but it answers only with unblinking grey eyes and closed lips. The speaker feels deep closeness to this silent figure. He does not ask the Sphinx anything either, because he claims to know what it knows and to hold the same answers. That final turn creates an eerie, private mood: two ancient, knowing presences—one stone, one human—keeping their secrets. The poem is less about solving a mystery than about the strange power of remaining quiet. It feels reverent and a little lonely, as if real understanding means you no longer need to speak. The Sphinx’s “cat crouch of ages” makes that silence feel heavy with time, patience, and unspoken knowledge.
A Sphinx — Summary
Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and never let out a whisper.
Processions came by, marchers, asking questions you answered with grey eyes never blinking, shut lips never talking.
Not one croak of anything you know has come from your cat crouch of ages.
I am one of those who know all you know and I keep my questions : I know the answers you hold.