The Project Gutenberg eBook of Song-surf, by The Same Author.
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Title: Song-Surf
Author: Cale Young Rice
Release date: April 5, 2010 [eBook #31890]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Josephine Paolucci and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONG-SURF ***
SONG-SURF
By the Same Author
Nirvana Days
Yolanda of Cyprus
A Night in Avignon
Charles di Tocca
David
Many Gods
SONG-SURF
BY
CALE YOUNG RICE
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
MCMX
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHED, SEPTEMBER, 1910
TO
MY SISTERS
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.
Songs to A. H. R.: I. The World's, and Mine95 II. Love-Call in Spring96 III. Mating97 IV. Untold98 V. Love-Watch99 VI. At Amalfi99 VII. On the Pacific101
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 shore.
"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?" [Pg 4]
"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?" [Pg 5]
"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 willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the waste, We know not Whither, willy-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 multitudes be dense." [Pg 6]
"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 Cæsar 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?" [Pg 7]
"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." [Pg 8]
"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 Sáki's Mind than we can reach Through æons mounting still from Sky to Sky— May open through all Mystery a breach." [Pg 9]
"You speak as if Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Sáki from that Bowl has poured Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour."
"Bubbles we are, pricked 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?" [Pg 10]
"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." [Pg 11]
"But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; 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." [Pg 12]
"Then, strange, is't not? that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too?"
"Such is the Ban! but even though we heard Love in Life's All we still should crave the word Of one returned. Yet none is sure, we know, Though they lie deep, they are by Death deterred."
"Send then thy Soul through the Invisible Some letter of the After-life to spell: And by and by thy Soul returned to thee But answers, 'I myself am Heaven and Hell.'"
"From the Invisible, he does. But sent Thro' Earth, where living Goodness tho' 'tis blent With Evil dures, may he not read the Voice, 'To make thee but for Death were toil ill spent'?" [Pg 13]
"Well, when the Angel of the darker drink At last shall find us by the river-brink And offering his Cup invite our souls Forth to our lips to quaff, we shall not shrink."
"No. But if in the sable Cup we knew Death without waking were the wilful brew, Nobler it were to curse as Coward Him Who roused us into light—then light withdrew."
"Then Thou who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my fall to sin."
"He will not. If one evil we endure To ultimate Debasing, oh, be sure 'Tis not of Him predestined, and the sin Not His nor ours—but Fate's He could not cure." [Pg 14]
"Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! The Nightingale that on the branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?"
"So does it seem—no other joys like these! Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honoured ease; And wintry Age, is't ever whisperless Of that Last Spring, whose Verdure may not cease?"
"Still, would some winged Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate!"
"To otherwise enregister believe He toils eternally, nor asks Reprieve. And could Creation perfect from his hands Have come at Dawn, none overmuch should grieve." [Pg 15]
So till the wan and early scent of day We strove, and silent turned at last away, Thinking how men in ages yet unborn Would ask and answer—trust and doubt and pray.
Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen? I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate. But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen His spirit—by night and by day come voices that wait.
Athirst and affrightened he fled from the star-wrought waters of Kishon. His face was as wool when he swooned at the door of my tent. The Lord hath given him into the hand of perdition, [Pg 17]I smiled—but he saw not the face of my cunning intent.
He thirsted for water: I fed him the curdless milk of the cattle. He lay in the tent under purple and crimson of Tyre. He slept and he dreamt of the surge and storming of battle. Ah ha! but he woke not to waken Jehovah's ire.
He slept as he were a chosen of Israel's God Almighty. A dog out of Canaan!—thought he I was woman alone? I slipt like an asp to his ear and laughed for the sight he Would give when the carrion kites should tear to his bone. [Pg 18]
I smote thro' his temple the nail, to the dust, a worm, did I bind him. My heart was a-leap with rage and a-quiver with scorn. And I danced with a holy delight before and behind him— I that am called blessèd o'er all unto Judah born.
"Aye, come, I will show thee, O Barak, a woman is more than a warrior," I cried as I lifted the door wherein Sisera lay. "To me did he fly and I shall be called his destroyer— I, Jael, who am subtle to find for the Lord a way!"
"Above all the daughters of men be blest—of Gilead or Asshur," [Pg 19]Sang Deborah, prophetess, then, from her waving palm. "Behold her, ye people, behold her the heathen's abasher; Behold her the Lord hath uplifted—behold and be calm!
"The mother of him at the window looks out thro' the lattice to listen— Why roll not the wheels of his chariot? why does he stay? Shall he not return with the booty of battle, and glisten In songs of his triumph—ye women, why do ye not say?"
And I was as she who danced when the Seas were rended asunder And stood, until Egypt pressed in to be drowned unto death. [Pg 20]My breasts were as fire with the glory, the rocks that were under My feet grew quick with the gloating that beat in my breath.
At night I stole out where they cast him, a sop to the jackal and raven. But his bones stood up in the moon and I shook with affright. The strength shrank out of my limbs and I fell, a craven, Before him—the nail in his temple gleamed bloodily bright.
Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen? I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate. But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen [Pg 21]His spirit—by day and by night come voices that wait.
I fly to the desert, I fly to the mountain—but they will not hide me. His gods haunt the winds and the caves with vengeance that cries For judgment upon me; the stars in their courses deride me— The stars Thou hast hung with a breath in the wandering skies.
Jehovah! Jehovah! I slew him, the scourge and sting of Thy Nation. Take from me his spirit, take from me the voice of his blood. With madness I rave—by day and by night, defamation! Jehovah, release me! Jehovah! if still Thou art God!
Art thou enraged, O sea, with the blue peace Of heaven, so to uplift thine armèd waves, Thy billowing rebellion 'gainst its ease, And with Tartarean mutter from cold caves, From shuddering profundities where shapes Of awe glide thro' entangled leagues of ooze, To hoot thy watery omens evermore, And evermore thy moanings interfuse With seething necromancy and mad lore?
Or, dost thou labour with the drifting bones Of countless dead, thou mighty Alchemist, Within whose stormy crucible the stones Of sunk primordial shores, granite and schist, Are crumbled by thine all-abrasive beat? [Pg 23]With immemorial chanting to the moon, And cosmic incantation, dost thou crave Rest to be found not till thy wild be strewn Frigid and desert over earth's last grave?
Thou seemest with immensity mad, blind— With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn; Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mind Is night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scorn Of the o'ermounting birth of Harmony. Bound in thy briny bed and gnawing earth With foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides, Thou art as Fate in torment of a dearth Of black disaster and destruction's strides.
And how thou dost drive silence from the world, Incarnate Motion of all mystery! Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurled [Pg 24]Whither thy Ghost tempestuous can see A desolate apocalypse of death. Oh, how thou dost drive silence from the world, With emerald overflowing, waste on waste Of flashing susurration, dashed and swirled O'er isles and continents that shrink abased!
Nay, frustrate Hope art thou, of the Unknown, Gathered from primal mist and firmament; A surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan, Whelming humanity with fears unmeant. Yet do I love thee, O, above all fear, And loving thee unconquerably trust The runes that from thy ageless surfing start Would read, were they revealed, gust upon gust, That Immortality is might of heart!
Down the palm-way from Eden in the mid-night Lay dreaming Eve by her outdriven mate, Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweet Of birth within the Garden's ecstasy. Pitiful round her face that could not lose Its memory of God's perfecting was strewn Her troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sigh Along her loveliness in the white moon. Then sudden her dream, too cruelly impent With pain, broke and a cry fled shuddering Into the wounded stillness from her lips— As, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand, And tears, that had before ne'er visited Her lids with anguish, drew from her the moan: [Pg 32]
"Oh, Adam! What have I dreamed? Now do I understand His words, so dim To creatures that had quivered but with bliss! Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and I Wept at caresses that were once all joy, I have slept, seeing through Futurity The uncreated ages visibly! Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the womb Of Time, and all with lamentable mien Accusing without mercy, thee and me! And without pity! for tho' some were far From birth, and without name, others were near— Sodom and dark Gomorrah—from whose flames Fleeing one turned ... how like her look to mine When the tree's horror trembled on my taste! And Babylon upbuilded on our sin; And Nineveh, a city sinking slow Under a shroud of sandy centuries That hid me not from the buried cursing eyes Of women who e'er-bitterly gave birth! [Pg 33]Ah, to be mother of all misery! To be first-called out of the earth and fail For a whole world! To shame maternity For women evermore—women whose tears Flooding the night, no hope can wipe away! To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thou Hast not, endlessly beating, and to hear The swooning ages suffer up to God! And Oh, that birth-cry of a guiltless child In it are sounding of our sin and woe, With prophesy of ill beyond all years! Yearning for beauty never to be seen— Beatitude redeemless evermore!
"And I whose dream mourned with all motherhood Must hear it soon! Already do soft skill, Assuasive lulls, enticings and quick tones Of tenderness—that will like light awake The folded memory children shall bring Out of the dark—move in me longingly. [Pg 34]Yet thou, Adam, dear fallen thought of God, Thou, when thou too shall hear humanity Cry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the world Back in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fill God's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"
Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissed The fever from her lips. Over the palms The sad moon poured her peace into their eyes, Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness, Folded again dark wings above their rest.
This path will tell me where dark daisies dance To the white sycamores that dell them in; Where crow and flicker cry melodious din, And blackberries in ebon ripeness glance Luscious enticings under briery green. It will slip under coppice limbs that lean Brushingly as the slow-belled heifer pants Toward weedy water-plants That shade the pool-sunk creek's reluctant trance.
I shall find bell-flower spires beside the gap And lady phlox within the hollow's cool; Cedar with sudden memories of Yule Above the tangle tipped with blue skullcap. The high hot mullein fond of the full sun [Pg 42]Will watch and tell the low mint when I've won The hither wheat where idle breezes nap, And fluffy quails entrap Me from their brood that crouch to escape mishap.
Then I shall reach the mossy water-way That gullies the dense hill up to its peak, There dally listening to the eerie eke Of drops into cool chalices of clay. Then on, for elders odorously will steal My senses till I climb up where they heal The livid heat of its malingering ray, And wooingly betray To memory many a long-forgotten day.
There I shall rest within the woody peace Of afternoon. The bending azure frothed With silveryness, the sunny pastures swathed, Fragrant with morn-mown clover and seed-fleece; The hills where hung mists muse, and Silence calls [Pg 43]To Solitude thro' aged forest halls, Will waft into me their mysterious ease, And in the wind's soft cease I shall hear hintings of eternities.
Thou art late, O Moon, Late, I have waited thee long. The nightingale's flown to her nest, Sated with song. The champak hath no odour more To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er— But my heart it will not rest.
Thou art late, O Love, Late, For the moon is a-wane. The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs, Burns with my pain. [Pg 46]The lotus leans her head on the stream— Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream, Dream ere the night-cool dies?
Thou art late, O Death, Late, For he did not come! A pariah is my heart, Cast from him—dumb! I cannot cry in the jungle's deep— Is it not time for the Tomb—and Sleep? O Death, strike with thy dart!
"Give me a little child To draw this dreary want out of my breast," I cried to God. "Give, for my days beat wild With loneliness that will not rest But under the still sod!"
It came—with groping lips And little fingers stealing aimlessly About my heart. I was like one who slips A-sudden into Ecstasy And thinks ne'er to depart.
"Soon he will smile," I said, "And babble baby love into my ears— [Pg 50]How it will thrill!" I waited—Oh, the dread, The clutching agony, the fears!— He was so strange and still.
Did I curse God and rave When they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twas A witless child? No ... I ... I only gave One cry ... just one ... I think ... because ... You know ... he never smiled.
The East Wind is a Bedouin, And Nimbus is his steed; Out of the dusk with the lightning's thin Blue scimitar he flies afar, Whither his rovings lead. The Dead Sea waves And Egypt caves Of mummied silence laugh When he mounts to quench the Siroc's stench And to wrench From his clutch the tyrant's staff.
The West Wind is an Indian brave Who scours the Autumn's crest. Dashing the forest down as a slave, [Pg 52]He tears the leaves from its limbs and weaves A maelstrom for his breast. Out of the night Crying to fright The earth he swoops to spoil— There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath, In his path There is misery and moil.
The North Wind is a Viking—cold And cruel, armed with death! Born in the doomful deep of the old Ice Sea that froze ere Ymir rose From Niflheim's ebon breath. And with him sail Snow, Frost, and Hail, Thanes mighty as their lord, To plunder the shores of Summer's stores— And his roar's Like the sound of Chaos' horde. [Pg 53]
The South Wind is a Troubadour; The Spring 's his serenade. Over the mountain, over the moor, He blows to bloom from the winter's tomb Blossom and leaf and blade. He ripples the throat Of the lark with a note Of lilting love and bliss, And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon, Are a-swoon— When he woos them with his kiss.
The young stork sleeps in the pine-tree tops, Down on the brink of the river. My baby sleeps by the bamboo copse— The bamboo copse where the rice field stops: The bamboos sigh and shiver.
The white fox creeps from his hole in the hill; I must pray to Inari. I hear her calling me low and chill— Low and chill when the wind is still At night and the skies hang starry.
And ever she says, "He's dead! he's dead! Your lord who went to battle. [Pg 63]How shall your baby now be fed, Ukibo fed, with rice and bread— What if I hush his prattle?"
The red moon rises as I slip back, And the bamboo stems are swaying. Inari was deaf—and yet the lack, The fear and lack, are gone, and the rack, I know not why—with praying.
For though Inari cared not at all, Some other god was kinder. I wonder why he has heard my call, My giftless call—and what shall befall?... Hope has but left me blinder!
I thought I plunged into that dire Abyss Which is Oblivion, the house of Death. I thought there blew upon my soul the breath Of time that was but never more can be.
Ten thousand years within its void I thought I lay, blind, deaf, and motionless, until— Though with no eye nor ear—I felt the thrill Of seeing, heard its phantoms move and sigh.
First one beside me spoke, in tones that told He once had been a god—"Persephone, Tear from thy brow its withered crown, for we Are king and queen of Tartarus no more; [Pg 65]And that wan, shrivelled sceptre in thy hand, Why dost thou clasp it still? Cast it away, For now it hath no virtue that can sway Dull shades or drive the Furies to their spoil.
"Cast it away, and give thy palm to mine: Perchance some unobliterated spark Of memory shall warm this dismal Dark. Perchance—Vain! vain! love could not light such gloom."
He sank.... Then in great ruin by him moved Another as in travail of some thought Near unto birth; and soon from lips distraught By aged silence, fell, with hollow woe:
"Ah, Pluto, dost thou, one time lord of Styx And Acheron make moan of night and cold? Were we upon Olympus as of old Laughter of thee would rock its festal height. [Pg 66]
"But think, think thee of me, to whom or gloom Or cold were more unknown than impotence! See the unhurlèd thunderbolt brought hence To mock me when I dream I still am Jove!"
Too much it was: I withered in the breath; And lay again ten thousand lifeless years; And then my soul shook, woke—and saw three biers Chiselled of solid night majestically.
The forms outlaid upon them were enwound As with the silence of eternity. Numbing repose dwelt o'er them like a sea, That long hath lost tide, wave and roar, in death.
"Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris are their names," A spirit hieroglyphed unto my soul. "Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris—they who stole The heart of Egypt from the God of gods: [Pg 67]
"Aye, they! and these!" pointing to many wraiths That stood around—Baal, Ormuzd, Indra, all Whom frightened ignorance and sin's appall Had given birth, close-huddled in despair.
Their eyes were fixed upon a cloven slope Down whose descent still other forms a-fresh From earth were drawn, by the unceasing mesh Of Time to their irrevocable end.
"They are the gods," one said—"the gods whom men Still taunt with wails for help."—Then a deep light Upbore me from the Gulf, and thro' its might I heard the worlds cry, "God alone is God!"
O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white, And I will call to mine. Call to her by the meadow-gate, And I will call by the pine.
Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white, The windy wheat sways west. Whistle again, call clear and run To lure her out of her nest.
For when to the copse she comes, shy bird, With Mary down the lane I'll walk, in the dusk of the locust tops, And be her lover again. [Pg 69]
Ay, we will forget our hearts are old, And that our hair is gray. We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunset That summer's halcyon day.
That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white, Still calling—calling still? We're coming—a-coming, bent and weighed, But glad with the old love's thrill!
Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun, Drawing my heart with thee over the west! Done is its day as thy day is done, Fallen its quest!
Swoon into purple and rose, then die: Tho' to arise again out of the dawn: Die as I praise thee, ere thro' the Dark Lie Of death I am drawn!
Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life! I like a child could cry for it again— Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife, Its women, its men! [Pg 71]
For, how I drained it with love and delight! Opened its heart with the magic of grief! Reaped every season—its day and its night! Loved every sheaf!
Aye, not a meadow my step has trod, Never a flower swung sweet to my face, Never a heart that was touched of God, But taught me its grace.
Off from my lids then a moment yet, Fingering Death, for again I must see Lifted by memory all that I met Under Time's lee.
There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair! Under the eyes does a marvel not burn? Speak they not vision—and frenzy to dare, That still in me yearn?... [Pg 72]
Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart, Still you can answer with swirling the thought! Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart, Joyous, distraught!...
Love, and her face again! there by the wood!— Come, thou invisible Dark with thy mask! Shall I not learn if she lives? and could I more of thee ask?...
Turn me away from the ashen west, Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk. Something is stealing like light from my breast— Soul from its husk ...
Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead, Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls, Bury me, near to the haunting tread Of life that o'errolls.
The wind slipt over the hill And down the valley. He dimpled the cheek of the rill With a cooling kiss. Then hid on the bank a-glee And began to rally The rushes—Oh, I love the wind for this!
A cloud blew out of the west And spilt his shower Upon the lily-bud crest And the clematis. Then over the virgin corn Besprinkled a dower Of dew-gems—And, I love the cloud for this!
Thy mellow passioning amid the leaves, That tremble dimly in the summer dusk, Falls sad along the oatland's sallow sheaves And haunts above the runnel's voice a-husk With plashy willow and bold-wading reed. The solitude's dim spell it breaketh not, But softer mourns unto me from the mead Than airs that in the wood intoning start, Or breath of silences in dells begot To soothe some grief-wan soul with sin a-smart.
2
A votaress art thou of Simplicity, Who hath one fane—the heaven above thy nest; [Pg 80]One incense—love; one stealing litany Of peace from rivered vale and upland crest. Yea, thou art Hers, who makes prayer of the breeze, Hope of the cool upwelling from sweet soils, Faith of the darkening distance, charities Of vesper scents, and of the glow-worm's throb Joy whose first leaping rends the care-wound coils That would earth of its heavenliness rob.
3
But few, how few her worshippers! For we Cast at a myriad shrines our souls, to rise Beliefless, unanointed, bound not free, To sacrificing a vain sacrifice! Let thy lone innocence then quickly null Within our veins doubt-led and wrong desire— Or drugging knowledge that but fills o'erfull Of feverous mystery the days we drain! Be thy warm notes like an Orphean lyre To lead us to life's Arcady again!
O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreams Troubled by thy grave beauty shall be born; Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streams Shall speak to me for ever, from this morn; The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting, Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea, Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, lifting Their misty waving woodland verdancy!
The centuries that draw thee to the earth In envy of thy desolated charm, The summers and the winters, the sky's girth Of sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm. [Pg 82]But would that I were Time, then only tender Touch upon thee should fall as on I sped; Of every pillar would I be defender, Of every mossy window—of thy dead!
Thy dead beneath obliterated stones Upon the sod that is at last thy floor, Who list the Wye not as it lonely moans Nor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er. O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where never Are wanting mysteries that move the breast, I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever— Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!
We, spoke of God and Fate, And of that Life—which some await— Beyond the grave, "It will be fair," she said, "But love is here! I only crave thy breast Not God's when I am dead. For He nor wants nor needs My little love. But it may be, if I love thee And those whose sorrow daily bleeds, He knows—and somehow heeds!"
What are the heaths and hills to me? I'm a-longing for the sea! What are the flowers that dapple the dell, And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk; What are the church and the folk who tell Their hearts to God?—my heart is a husk! (I'm a-longing for the sea!)
Aye! for there is no peace to me— But on the peaceless sea! Never a child was glad at my knee, And the soul of a woman has never been mine. What can a woman's kisses be?— I fear to think how her arms would twine. (I'm a-longing for the sea!) [Pg 87]
So, not a home and ease for me— But still the homeless sea! Where I may swing my sorrow to sleep In a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves, Where I may wake when the tempests heap And hurl their hate—and a brave ship saves. (I'm a-longing for the sea!)
Then when I die, a grave for me— But in the graveless sea! Where is no stone for an eye to spell Thro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse. Let me be laid in the deeps that swell And sigh and wander—an ocean hearse! (I'm a-longing for the sea!)
See, see!—the blows at his breast, The abyss at his back, The perils and pains that pressed, The doubts in a pack, That hunted to drag him down Have triumphed? and now He sinks, who climbed for the crown To the Summit's brow?
No!—though at the foot he lies, Fallen and vain, With gaze to the peak whose skies He could not attain, The victory is, with strength— No matter the past!— He'd dare it again, the dark length, And the fall at last!
The seraphs would sing to her And from the River Dip her cool grails of radiant Life. The angels would bring to her, Sadly a-quiver, Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.
And often they'd fly with her O'er the star-spaces— Silent by worlds where mortals are pent. Yea, even would sigh with her, Sigh with wan faces! When she sat weeping of strange discontent.
But one said, "Why weepest thou Here in God's heaven— Is it not fairer than soul can see?" [Pg 92]"'Tis fair, ah!—but keepest thou Not me depriven Of some one—somewhere—who needeth most me?
"For tho' the day never fades Over these meadows, Tho' He has robed me and crowned—yet, yet! Some love-fear for ever shades All with sere shadows— Had I no child there—whom I forget?"
The world may hear The wind at his trees, The lark in her skies, The sea on his leas; May hear Song rise On words as immortal As any that sound Thro' Heaven's Portal. But I have a music they can never know— The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you, Oh! All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you— Be it forever so! [Pg 96]
II
LOVE-CALL IN SPRING
Not only the lark but the robin too (Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!) Is singing the air to gladness new As the breaking bud And the freshet's flood!
Not only the peeping grass and the scent— (Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!) Of violets coming ere April's spent— But the frog's shrill cheer And the crow's wild jeer!
Not only the blue, not only the breeze, (Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!) But sun that is sweeter upon the trees Than rills that throng To the brooklet's song! [Pg 97]
Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love, (Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!) For spring is below and God is above— But all is a waste Without thee—haste!
III
MATING
The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing! What shall we do with the April days! Kingcups soon will be up and swinging— What shall we do with May's!
The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!" Out on the bough he flutters, a flame. Thrush-flutes echo, "For mating's elating! Love is its other name!" [Pg 98]
They know! know it! but better, oh, better, Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring, Know we to make each moment debtor Unto love's burgeoning!
IV
UNTOLD
Could I, a poet, Implant the truth of you, Seize it and sow it As Spring on the world. There were no need To fling (forsooth) of you Fancies that only lovers heed! No, but unfurled, The bloom, the sweet of you, (As unto me they are opened oft) Would with their beauty's breath repeat of you All that my heart breathes loud or soft! [Pg 99]
V
LOVE-WATCH
My love's a guardian-angel Who camps about thy heart, Never to See thine enemy, Nor from thee turn apart.
Whatever dark may shroud thee And hide thy stars away, With vigil sweet his wings shall beat About thee till the day.
VI
AT AMALFI
Come to the window, you who are mine. Waken! the night is calling. Sit by me here—with the moon's fair shine Into your deep eyes falling. [Pg 100]
The sea afar is a fearful gloom; Lean from the casement, listen! Anear it breaks with a faery spume, Spraying the rocks that glisten.
The little white town below lies deep As eternity in slumber. O, you who are mine, how a glance can reap Beauties beyond all number!
And, how as sails that at anchor ride Our spirits rock together On a sea of love—lit as this tide With tenderest star-weather!
Till the gray dawn is redd'ning up, Over the moon low-lying. Come, come away—we have drunk the cup: Ours is the dream undying! [Pg 101]
VII
ON THE PACIFIC
A storm broods far on the foam of the deep; The moon-path gleams before. A day and a night, a night and a day, And the way, love, will be o'er.
Six thousand wandering miles we have come And never a sail have seen. The sky above and the sea below And the drifting clouds between.
Yet in our hearts unheaving hope And light and joy have slept. Nor ever lonely has seemed the wave Tho' heaving wild it leapt. [Pg 102]
For there is talismanic might Within our vows of love To breathe us over all seas of life— On to that Port, above,
Where the great Captain of all ships Shall anchor them or send Them forth on a vaster Voyage, yea, On one that shall not end.
And upon that we two, I think, Together still shall sail. Oh, may it be, my own, or may We perish in death's gale!
Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes (Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves). Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashes His limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.
He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven (Sins of the revelous days of June)— Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven, Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.
Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging, (Long will the day-god aloof frown cold), Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging— Till the dark beads of his days are told.
Ah, what a changeling! Yester you dashed from the west, Altho' it is Spring, And scattered the hail with maniac zest Thro' the shivering corn—in scorn For the labour of God and man. And now from the plentiful South you haste, With lovingest fingers, To ruefully lift and wooingly fan The lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk: As if the chill waste Of the earth's May-dreams, The flowers so full of her joy, Were not—as it seems— A wanton attempt to destroy.
Ah, it was here—September And silence filled the air— I came last year to remember, And muse, hid away from care. It was here I came—the thistle Was trusting her seed to the wind; The quail in the croft gave whistle As now—and the fields lay thinned.
I know how the hay was steeping, Brown mows under mellow haze; How a frail cloud-flock was creeping As now over lone sky-ways. Just there where the catbird's calling Her mock-hurt note by the shed, The use-worn wain was stalling In the weedy brook's dry bed. [Pg 109]
And the cricket, lone little chimer Of day-long dreams in the vines, Chirred on like a doting rhymer O'er-vain of his firstling lines. He's near me now by the aster, Beneath whose shadowy spray A sultry bee seeps faster As the sun slips down the day.
And there are the tall primroses Like maidens waiting to dance. They stood in the same shy poses Last year, as if to entrance The stately mulleins to waken From death and lead them around: And still they will stand untaken, Till drops their gold to the ground.
Yes, it was here—September And silence round me yearned. Again I've come to remember, [Pg 110]Again for musing returned To the searing fields' assuaging, And the falling leaves' sad balm: Away from the world's keen waging— To harvest and hills and calm.
I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose, Thy hair like rippled sunbeams, and thine eyes Like violets, April-rich and sprung of God. My barren gaze can never know what throes Such boons of beauty waken, tho' I rise Each day a-tremble with the ruthless hope That light will pierce my useless lids—then grope Till night, blind as the worm within his clod.
Yet unto me thou art not less divine, I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hid Within the twilight breeze; I smooth thy hair And understand how slipping hours may twine Themselves into eternity: yea, rid Of all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seem To see all beauty God Himself may dream. Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?
When Autumn's melancholy robes the land With silence, and sad fadings mystical Of other years move thro' the mellow fields, I turn unto this meadow of the dead, Strewn with the leaves stormed from October trees, And wonder if my resting shall be dug Here by this cedar's moan or under the sway Of yonder cypress—lair of winds that rove As Valkyries sent from Valhalla's court In search of worthy slain. And sundry times with questioning I tease The entombed of their estate—seeking to know Whether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feel The oblivion of Nature's silent flow, Or here to wander wistful o'er her face. Whether the harvesting of pain and joy [Pg 115]Which men call Life ends so, or whether death Pours the warm chrism of Immortality Into each human heart whose glow is spent.
And oft the Silence hears me. For a voice Of sighing wind may answer, or a gaze, Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face. Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of gold, That ebb along the west, revealings wing And tremble, like ethereal swift tongues Unskilled of human speech, about my heart— Till youth, age, death, even earth's all, it seems, Are but brave moments wakened in that Soul, To whom infinities are as a span, Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun, And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wilds Into the ceaseless surging of the sea....
Then twilight hours lead back my wandered spirit From out the wilderness of mystery Whence none may find a path to the Unknown, And chastened to content I turn me home.
Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn, When sleep's oblivion is torn away From love that died with dying yesterday But still unburied in the heart lies on!
Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees, The sense of human waking o'er the earth! The quivering memories of love's fair birth Now strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!
Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness, Striving for sovranty within the soul! Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole, And immortality but make it less!
When at evening smothered lightnings Burn the clouds with fretted fires; When the stars forget to glisten, And the winds refuse to listen To the song of my desires, Oh, my love, unto thee!
When the livid breakers angered Churn against my stormy tower; When the petrel flying faster Brings an omen to the master Of his vessel's fated hour— Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!
Then I climb the climbing stairway, Turn the light across the storm; [Pg 124]You are watching, fisher-maiden For the token-flashes laden With a love death could not harm— Lo, they come, swift and free!
One—that means, "I think of thee!" Two—"I swear me thine!" Three—Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!— Is, that I know thee mine! Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three, All the night they sweep: Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep, One—and Two—and Three.
And could I love it more—this simple scene Of cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested, That lie as if forgotten were all green, So bare, so dead!
Or could my gaze more tenderly entwine Each pallid beech and silvery sycamore Outreaching arms in patience to divine If winter's o'er?
Ah no, the wind has blown into my veins The blue infinity of sky, the sense Of meadows free to-day from icy pains— From wintry vents. [Pg 126]
And sunny peace more virgin than the glow Falling from eve's first star into the night, Brings hope believing what it ne'er can know With mortal sight.
I knew she would come! Sarcastic November Laughed cold and glum On the last red ember Of forest leaves. He was laughing, the scorner, At me forlorner Than any that grieves— Because I asked him if June would come!
But I knew she would come When snow-hearted winter Gripped river and loam, And the wind sped flinter On icy heel, [Pg 128]I was chafing my sorrow And yearning to borrow A hope that would steal Across the hours—till June should come.
And now she is here— The wanton!—I follow Her steps, ever near, To the shade of the hollow Where violets blow: And chide her for leaving, Tho' half believing She taunted me so, To make her abided return more dear.
Brown dropping of leaves, Soft rush of the wind, Slow searing of sheaves On the hill; Green plunging of frogs, Cool lisp of the brook, Far barking of dogs At the mill; Hot hanging of clouds, High poise of the hawk, Flush laughter of crowds From the Ridge; Nut-falling, quail-calling, Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling— Oh, sadness, gladness, madness, Of an autumn day at the bridge!
Do women weep when men have died? It cannot be! For I have sat here by his side, Breathing dear names against his face, That he must list to, were his place Over God's throne— Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.
Do women weep—not gaze stone-eyed? Grief seems in vain. Do women weep?—I was his bride— They brought him to me cold and pale— Upon his lids I saw the trail Of deathly pain. They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain." [Pg 132]
I cannot weep! Not if hot tears, Dropped on his lids, Might burn him back to life and years Of yearning love, would any rise To flood the anguish from my eyes— And I'm his bride! Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
Upon how many a hill, Across how many a field, Beside how many a river's restful flowing, They stand, with eyes a-thrill, And hearts of day-rue healed, Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!
They have forgotten life, Forgotten sunless death; Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever? No memory of strife Have they, or pain-sick breath. No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.
Silent the gold steals down The west, and mystery [Pg 134]Moves deeper in their hearts and settles darker. 'Tis faded—the day's crown; But strange and shadowy They see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.
Like priests whose altar fires Are spent, immovable They stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted. Zephyrs awake tree-lyres, The starry deeps are full, Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.
Ah, sunset-lovers, though Time were but pulsing pain, And death no more than its eternal ceasing, Would you not choose the throe, Hold the oblivion vain, To have beheld so many a day's releasing?
The eve of Golgotha had come, And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb: Among the olives, Oh, how dumb, How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!
The hill grew dim—the pleading cross Reached empty arms toward the closing gate. Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss! Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!
Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain! The murmurous multitude within the wall Already had forgot His pain— To-morrow would forget the cross—and all! [Pg 136]
They knew not Rome, before its sign, Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne, Would sweep all lands from Nile to Rhine In servitude unto the Nazarene.
Nor knew that millions would forsake Ancestral shrines great with the glow of time, And lifting up its token shake Aeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.
With empty arms aloft it stood: Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well! The cross emblotted with His blood Mounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!
Not grief nor the sunny wine Of gladness steeps my spirit as I gaze Over these meads that lie engarmented In stubble robes of winter-weary brown. For, as those solitary trees afar Have reached unbudding boughs to the dim day And melted on the infinite calm of space, So have I reached, and am no more distraught With the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday. But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair, Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep, Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift clouds Away to the sullen shades of the low west, Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude— And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.
Her voice is vibrant beauty dipt In dreams of infinite sorrow and delight. Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis slipt And lo, words spring that breathe immortal.
Out of the night of lovelessness I call Thee, as, in a chill chamber where no rays Of unbelievable light and freedom fall, Might cry one manacled! And tho' the ways Thou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's sore With emptiness when morning's silent grays Wake me to long aloneness; yet I know Thou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt go Beside me, when I have found thee, evermore!
2
So in the garden of my heart each day I plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace, And now the lily, faith—or now a spray Of the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er cease [Pg 140]Around the still unblossoming rose of love To bend in fragrant tribute to her sway. Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns, The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runs With brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.
3
But where now art thou? Watching with love's eye The eve-star wander? Listening through dim trees Some thrilled muezzin of the forest cry From his leafy minaret? Or by the sea's Blue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangs Like the faery isle of Avalon, do these My yearnings speak to thee of days thy feet Have never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet, My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.
4
And will be soon! For last night near to-day, Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphere [Pg 141]Of heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and lay Thine ear unto my Heart—there thou shalt hear The secrets of this world where evils war." Such things I heard as must rend mortal clay To tell, and trembled—till God, pitying, Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee sing Out of thy window to the morning star!
A host of bloody centuries lie prone Upon the fields of Time—but still the wake Of Progress loud is haunted with the groan Of myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slake His scarlet thirst, has War, fierce Polypheme Of fate, insatiately drunk life's stream. We bid the courier lightning leap along Its instant path with spirit speed—command Stars lost in night-eternity to throng Before the magnet eye of Science—stand On Glory's peak and triumphingly cry Out mastery of earth and sea and air. But unto War's necessity we bare Our piteous breasts—and impotently die.
Tho' thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delight Upon these airs, bird of the poet's love, Yet must I sing thy singing! For the Night Has poured her jewels o'er the lap of heaven As they who hear thee say thou dost above The wood such ecstasies as were not given By nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.
2
Oft have I watched the moon with her fair gold Still clung to by the tattered mists of day Arise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold. And almost I could see how the near laurels Would tremble with thy trembling: but the sway Of bards who wreathed thee with unfading chorals Has held my longing lips from this poor lay. [Pg 145]
3
But take it now. And if the lark—who is Too high for earth—may vie for praise with thee In aery rhapsody, yet it is his To sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrow And night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt be More dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrow From grief the healing for life's mystery.
Summer's last moon has waned— Waned As amber fires Of an Aztec shrine. The invisible breath of coming death has stained The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine— Autumn's near.
Winds in the woodland moan— Moan As memories Of a chilling yore. Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strown From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor— Autumn's near. [Pg 148]
Solitude slowly steals, Steals Her silent way By the songless brook. At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels, The musing joy of sadness in her look— Autumn's near.
Yes, with her golden days— Days When hope and toil Are at peace and rest— Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praise Lies down with leaf and blossom on his breast— Autumn's near.
A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun, Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done, The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by one Along the creek.
The corn-stalks drop their shadows down the fallow hill; Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill, Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still— Life's flow is weak.
Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk—or pause— Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose caws Seem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awes Of forest deeps. [Pg 150]
Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod, Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod; Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of God, Who never sleeps.
And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way, Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray; Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day, The while she reaps.
Silence is song unheard, Is beauty never born, Is light forgotten—left unstirred Upon Creation's morn.
THE END
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