Song-Surf Part 6

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 G.o.d was kinder.

I wonder why he has heard my call, My giftless call--and what shall befall?...

Hope has but left me blinder!

THE DEAD G.o.dS

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 G.o.d--"Persephone, Tear from thy brow its withered crown, for we Are king and queen of Tartarus no more; 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 un.o.bliterated 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.

"But think, think thee of me, to whom or gloom Or cold were more unknown than impotence!

See the unhurled 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 G.o.d of G.o.ds:

"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 G.o.ds," one said--"the G.o.ds 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, "G.o.d alone is G.o.d!"

CALL TO YOUR MATE, BOB-WHITE

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.

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!

THE DYING POET

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!

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 G.o.d, 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?...

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?...