Song-Surf. Rice Cale Young

      "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 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."

      "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'?"

      "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."

      "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."

      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.