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Title: With Omar
Author: Cale Young Rice [
More Titles by Rice]
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?"
"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 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."
"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, 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?"
"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."
"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.
[The end]
Cale Young Rice's poem: With Omar
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