Song-Surf Part 1

Song-Surf.

by Cale Young Rice.

FOREWORD

These poems, first published as "Song-Surf" in 1900, by a firm which failed before the book, left the press, were republished with additions as the "lyrics" of "Plays & Lyrics," by Hodder & Stoughton, of London, in 1905. Revision and omissions have been made for this volume of a uniform edition in which they now appear.

WITH OMAR

I sat with Omar by the Tavern door, Musing the mystery of mortals o'er, And soon with answers alternate we strove Whether, beyond death, Life hath any sh.o.r.e.

"_Come, fill the cup," said he. "In the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling.

The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing._"

"The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then have I No heart for Wine. Must we not cross the Sky Unto Eternity upon his wings--Or, failing, fall into the Gulf and die?"

"_Ay; so, for the Glories of this World sigh some, And some for the Prophet's Paradise to come; But you, Friend, take the Cash--the Credit leave, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!_"

"What! take the Cash and let the Credit go?

Spend all upon the Wine the while I know A possible To-morrow may bring thirst For Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?"

"_Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!_"

"Into the Dust we shall descend--we must.

But can the soul not break the crumbling Crust In which he is encaged? To hope or to Despair he will--which is more wise or just?"

"_The worldly hope men set their hearts upon Turns Ashes--or it prospers: and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two--is gone_."

"Like Snow it comes--to cool one burning Day; And like it goes--for all our plea or sway.

But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purge The Vision it has brought to us away."

"_But to this world we come and Why not knowing, Nor Whence, like water w.i.l.l.y-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the waste, We know not Whither, w.i.l.l.y-nilly blowing_."

"True, little do we know of _Why_ or _Whence_.

But is forsooth our Darkness evidence There is no Light?--the worm may see no star Tho' heaven with myriad mult.i.tudes be dense."

"_But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence?

And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence?

O, many a cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence._"

"Yet can not--ever! For it is forbid Still by that quenchless Soul within us hid, Which cries, 'Feed--feed me not on Wine alone, For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'"

"_Well oft I think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled: That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her lap from some once lovely Head._"

"Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes, More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose, Will the great Gardener for the uprooted soul Find Use no sweeter than--useless Repose?"

"_We cannot know--so fill the cup that clears To-day of past regret and future fears: To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow we may be Ourselves with Yesterday's sev'n thousand Years._"

"No Cup there is to bring oblivion More during than Regret and Fear--no, none!

For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and be Marah before to-morrow's Sands have run."

"_Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same Door where in I went._"

"The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither, Reason become a Prison where may wither From sunless eyes the Infinite, from hearts All Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither."

"_Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravelled by the Road-- But not the Master-knot of Human fate._"

"The Master-knot knows but the Master-hand That scattered Saturn and his countless Band Like seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air: The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned."

"_Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust aside And naked on the air of Heaven ride, Wer't not a shame--wer't not a shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?_"

"No, for a day bound in this Dust may teach More of the Saki's Mind than we can reach Through aeons mounting still from Sky to Sky-- May open through all Mystery a breach."

"_You speak as if Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour._"

"Bubbles we are, p.r.i.c.ked by the point of Death.

But, in each bubble, may there be no Breath That lifts it and at last to Freedom flies, And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth?"

"_A moment's halt--a momentary taste Of Being from the Well amid the Waste-- And Lo--the phantom Caravan has reached The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!_"

"And yet it should be--it should be that we Who drink shall drink of Immortality.

The Master of the Well has much to spare: Will He say, 'Taste'--then shall we no more be?"

"_The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it._"

"And were it other, might we not erase The Letter of some Sorrow in whose place No truer sounding, we should fail to spell The Heart which yearns behind the mock-world's Face?"

"_Well, this I know; whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me, quite, One flash of it within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright._"

"In Temple or in Tavern 't may be lost.

And everywhere that Love hath any Cost It may be found; the Wrath it seems is but A Cloud whose Dew should make its power most."

"_But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and They change and perish all--but He remains._"

"All--it may be. Yet lie to sleep, and lo, The soul seems quenched in Darkness--is it so?

Rather believe what seemeth not than seems Of Death--until we know--_until we know_."

"_So wastes the Hour--gone in the vain pursuit Of This and That we strive o'er and dispute.

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit._"

"Better--unless we hope that grief is thrown Across our Path by urgence of the Unknown, Lest we may think we have no more to live And bide content with dim-lit Earth alone."