Part 1 (1/2)

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?”