As the cocoanut-palmThat pines, my love,Away from the soundOf the planter's voice,Am I, for I hearNo more resoundYour song by the pearl-strewn sea!The sun may comeAnd the moon wax round,And in its beamMy mates may rejoice,But I feast notAnd my heart is dumb,As I long, O long, for thee!In the jungle-deeps,Where the cobra creeps,The leopard liesIn wait for me,But O, my love,When the daylight diesThere is more to my dread than he!Harsh lonely tearsThat assail my eyesAre worse to bear,—For the miseryThat makes them wellIs the long, long yearsThat I moan away from thee!O again, again,In my katamaranA-keel would I pushTo your palmy door!Again would I hearThe heave and hushOf your song by the plantain-tree.But far awayDo I toil and crushThe hopes that ariseAt my sick heart's core.For never nearDoes it come, the dayThat draws me again to thee!
As the cocoanut-palmThat pines, my love,Away from the soundOf the planter's voice,Am I, for I hearNo more resoundYour song by the pearl-strewn sea!The sun may comeAnd the moon wax round,And in its beamMy mates may rejoice,But I feast notAnd my heart is dumb,As I long, O long, for thee!
In the jungle-deeps,Where the cobra creeps,The leopard liesIn wait for me,But O, my love,When the daylight diesThere is more to my dread than he!Harsh lonely tearsThat assail my eyesAre worse to bear,—For the miseryThat makes them wellIs the long, long yearsThat I moan away from thee!
O again, again,In my katamaranA-keel would I pushTo your palmy door!Again would I hearThe heave and hushOf your song by the plantain-tree.But far awayDo I toil and crushThe hopes that ariseAt my sick heart's core.For never nearDoes it come, the dayThat draws me again to thee!
Soft and fair by the Desert's edge,And on the dim blue edge of the sea,Where white gulls wing all day and fledgeTheir young on the high cliff's sandy ledge,There is a city I have beheld,Sometime or where, by day or dream,I know not which, for it seems enspelledAs I am by its memory.Pale minarets of the Prophet pierceAbove it into the white of the skies,And sails enchanted a thousand yearsFlit at its feet while fancy steers.No face of all its faces to meIs known—no passion of it or pain.It is but a city by the sea,Enshrined forever beyond my eyes!
Soft and fair by the Desert's edge,And on the dim blue edge of the sea,Where white gulls wing all day and fledgeTheir young on the high cliff's sandy ledge,There is a city I have beheld,Sometime or where, by day or dream,I know not which, for it seems enspelledAs I am by its memory.
Pale minarets of the Prophet pierceAbove it into the white of the skies,And sails enchanted a thousand yearsFlit at its feet while fancy steers.No face of all its faces to meIs known—no passion of it or pain.It is but a city by the sea,Enshrined forever beyond my eyes!
Sea-scents, wild-rose scents,Bay and barberry too,Drench the wind, the Maine wind,That gulls are dipping thro,With soft hints, sweet hints,With lull, lure and desire;With memory-wafts and mysteries,And all the ineffable historiesMade when the sea and land meet,And the sun lends nuptial fire.Sea-foam, and dream-foam,And which is which, who knows,When all day long the heart goes outTo every wave that blows,That blossoms on the bright tide,Then sheds a shimmering crestAnd yields its tossing place to oneWhose blooming is as quickly done—For beauty is ever swift—begotOf rapture and unrest.Sea-deeps, and soul-deeps,And where shall faith be foundIf not within the heart's beatOr in the surging soundOf the sea, which is the earth's heart,Beating with tireless might;Beating—tho but a tragedyLife seems on every land and sea;Beating to bring all breath, somehow,Out of despair's blight.
Sea-scents, wild-rose scents,Bay and barberry too,Drench the wind, the Maine wind,That gulls are dipping thro,With soft hints, sweet hints,With lull, lure and desire;With memory-wafts and mysteries,And all the ineffable historiesMade when the sea and land meet,And the sun lends nuptial fire.
Sea-foam, and dream-foam,And which is which, who knows,When all day long the heart goes outTo every wave that blows,That blossoms on the bright tide,Then sheds a shimmering crestAnd yields its tossing place to oneWhose blooming is as quickly done—For beauty is ever swift—begotOf rapture and unrest.
Sea-deeps, and soul-deeps,And where shall faith be foundIf not within the heart's beatOr in the surging soundOf the sea, which is the earth's heart,Beating with tireless might;Beating—tho but a tragedyLife seems on every land and sea;Beating to bring all breath, somehow,Out of despair's blight.
Quietly, quietly in from the fieldsOf the grey Atlantic the billows come,Like sheep to the fold.Shorn by the rocks of fleecy foam,They sink on the brown seaweed at home;And a bell, like that of a bellwether,Is scarcely heard from the buoy—Save when they suddenly stumble together,In herded hurrying joy,Upon its guidance: then soft musicFrom it is tolled.Far out in the murk that follows them inIs heard the call of the fog-horn's voice,Like a shepherd's—low.And the strays as if waiting it seem to pauseAnd lift their heads and listen—becauseIt is sweet from wandering ways to be driven,When we have fearless breasts,When all that we strayed for has been given,When no want molestsUs more—no need of the tide's ebbingAnd tide's flow.
Quietly, quietly in from the fieldsOf the grey Atlantic the billows come,Like sheep to the fold.Shorn by the rocks of fleecy foam,They sink on the brown seaweed at home;And a bell, like that of a bellwether,Is scarcely heard from the buoy—Save when they suddenly stumble together,In herded hurrying joy,Upon its guidance: then soft musicFrom it is tolled.
Far out in the murk that follows them inIs heard the call of the fog-horn's voice,Like a shepherd's—low.And the strays as if waiting it seem to pauseAnd lift their heads and listen—becauseIt is sweet from wandering ways to be driven,When we have fearless breasts,When all that we strayed for has been given,When no want molestsUs more—no need of the tide's ebbingAnd tide's flow.
The rocks, lean fingers of the land,Reach out into the seaAnd cool themselves, all day long,In the tide drippingly.They catch the seaweed in themAnd the starfish on their tips,And gulls that lightAnd the swift flightOf swallows skimming grey and white—And spars of broken ships.The moon, God's perfect silver,With which He pays the worldFor toil and quest and day's unrest,Is washed on them and swirled.And avidly they seize it,Then let it slip away,Only againAnd yet againTo grasp at it—as eager menAt joy no hand can stay.
The rocks, lean fingers of the land,Reach out into the seaAnd cool themselves, all day long,In the tide drippingly.They catch the seaweed in themAnd the starfish on their tips,And gulls that lightAnd the swift flightOf swallows skimming grey and white—And spars of broken ships.
The moon, God's perfect silver,With which He pays the worldFor toil and quest and day's unrest,Is washed on them and swirled.And avidly they seize it,Then let it slip away,Only againAnd yet againTo grasp at it—as eager menAt joy no hand can stay.
Hovering wings of ternsOver the rock-pools flutter,For the tide, ebbed far out,Seems to stumble and stutter;Seems like a spirit lost,Unable to come againBack to the wonted ways and daysOf ever-wanting men.And the moon, a mediumTrance-pale, is laying her lightOver its surge—till, lo,It turns from the deep and night.And the spirit-word it bringsIs the message of all time,That doubt is only the ebb of faith,Which ever reflows sublime!
Hovering wings of ternsOver the rock-pools flutter,For the tide, ebbed far out,Seems to stumble and stutter;Seems like a spirit lost,Unable to come againBack to the wonted ways and daysOf ever-wanting men.
And the moon, a mediumTrance-pale, is laying her lightOver its surge—till, lo,It turns from the deep and night.And the spirit-word it bringsIs the message of all time,That doubt is only the ebb of faith,Which ever reflows sublime!
Salcombe Hill and four hills moreLie to leftward of this shore.On the right Peak Hill arisesEver rises, sickening, o'er.Two score rotting years I've seenSidmouth sit those hills between:Only Sidmouth—and twice overMust I bide it, as I've been.Then a churchyard hole for me,By the dull voice of the sea.Rotting, still in Sidmouth rotting,Rotting to eternity.
Salcombe Hill and four hills moreLie to leftward of this shore.On the right Peak Hill arisesEver rises, sickening, o'er.
Two score rotting years I've seenSidmouth sit those hills between:Only Sidmouth—and twice overMust I bide it, as I've been.
Then a churchyard hole for me,By the dull voice of the sea.Rotting, still in Sidmouth rotting,Rotting to eternity.
One wild gull on a wilder storm,Winging to keep her lone heart warm.One wild gull by the surf—and I,Beaten by wind and rain and sky.One wild gull in the offing lost,Wilder heart in my bosom tost.One wild gull—O why but one!Two, dear God, should there be—or none!
One wild gull on a wilder storm,Winging to keep her lone heart warm.One wild gull by the surf—and I,Beaten by wind and rain and sky.
One wild gull in the offing lost,Wilder heart in my bosom tost.One wild gull—O why but one!Two, dear God, should there be—or none!
Are you enraged, O sea, with the blue peaceOf heaven, so to uplift your armied waves,Your billowy rebellion against its ease,And with Tartarean mutter from cold caves,From shuddering profundities where shapesOf awe glide thro entangled leagues of ooze,To hoot your watery omens evermore,And evermore your moanings interfuseWith seething necromancy and mad lore?Or do you labour with the drifting bonesOf countless dead, O mighty Alchemist,Within whose stormy crucible the stonesOf sunk primordial shores, granite and schist,Are crumbled by your all-abrasive beat?With immemorial chanting to the moon,And cosmic incantation, do you craveRest to be found not till your wilds are strewnFrigid and desert over earth's last grave?You seem drunk with immensity, mad, blind—With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn,Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mindIs night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scornOf the o'ermounting birth of Harmony.Bound in your briny bed and gnawing earthWith foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides,You are as Fate in torment of a dearthOf black disaster and destruction's strides.And how you shatter silence from the world,Incarnate Motion of all mystery!Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurledWhither your Ghost tempestuous can seeA desolate apocalypse of death.Yea, how you shatter silence from the world,With emerald overflowing, waste on wasteOf flashing susurration, dashed and swirledOn isles and continents that shrink abased!And yet, O veering veil of the Unknown,Gathered from primal mist and firmament;O surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan,Whelming humanity with fears unmeant;Yet do I love you, far above all fear,And loving you unconquerably trustThe runes that from your ageless surfing startWould read, were they revealed, gust upon gust,That Immortality is might of heart!
Are you enraged, O sea, with the blue peaceOf heaven, so to uplift your armied waves,Your billowy rebellion against its ease,And with Tartarean mutter from cold caves,From shuddering profundities where shapesOf awe glide thro entangled leagues of ooze,To hoot your watery omens evermore,And evermore your moanings interfuseWith seething necromancy and mad lore?
Or do you labour with the drifting bonesOf countless dead, O mighty Alchemist,Within whose stormy crucible the stonesOf sunk primordial shores, granite and schist,Are crumbled by your all-abrasive beat?With immemorial chanting to the moon,And cosmic incantation, do you craveRest to be found not till your wilds are strewnFrigid and desert over earth's last grave?
You seem drunk with immensity, mad, blind—With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn,Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mindIs night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scornOf the o'ermounting birth of Harmony.Bound in your briny bed and gnawing earthWith foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides,You are as Fate in torment of a dearthOf black disaster and destruction's strides.
And how you shatter silence from the world,Incarnate Motion of all mystery!Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurledWhither your Ghost tempestuous can seeA desolate apocalypse of death.Yea, how you shatter silence from the world,With emerald overflowing, waste on wasteOf flashing susurration, dashed and swirledOn isles and continents that shrink abased!
And yet, O veering veil of the Unknown,Gathered from primal mist and firmament;O surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan,Whelming humanity with fears unmeant;Yet do I love you, far above all fear,And loving you unconquerably trustThe runes that from your ageless surfing startWould read, were they revealed, gust upon gust,That Immortality is might of heart!
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me!One said:"Away! he is dead!Upon my foam I have flung his head!Go back to your cote, you never shall wed!—(Nor he!)"Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.Two brake.The third with a quakeCried loud, "O maid, I'll find for thy sakeHis dead lost body: prepare his wake!"(And back it plunged to the sea!)Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.One bore—And swept on the shore—His pale, pale face I shall kiss no more!Ah, woe to women death passes o'er!(Woe's me!)
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me!One said:"Away! he is dead!Upon my foam I have flung his head!Go back to your cote, you never shall wed!—(Nor he!)"
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.Two brake.The third with a quakeCried loud, "O maid, I'll find for thy sakeHis dead lost body: prepare his wake!"(And back it plunged to the sea!)
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.One bore—And swept on the shore—His pale, pale face I shall kiss no more!Ah, woe to women death passes o'er!(Woe's me!)
Over a scurf of rocks the tideWanders inward far and wide,Lifting the sea-weed's sloven hair,Filling the pools and foaming there,Sighing, sighing everywhere.Merged are the marshes, merged the sands,Save the dunes with pine-tree handsStretching upward toward the sky,Where the sun, their god, moves high:Would I too had a god—yea, I!For, the sea is to me but sea,And the sky but infinity.Tides and times are but some chanceBorn of a primal atom-dance.All is a mesh of Circumstance.In it there is no Heart—no Soul—No illimitable Goal—Only wild happenings, by wontMade into laws no might can shuntFrom the deep grooves in which they hunt.Wings of the gull I watch or clawsOf the cold crab whose strangeness awes:Faces of men that feel the forceOf a hid thing they call life's course:It is their hoping or remorse.Yet it may be that I have missedSomething that only they who tryst,Not with the sequence of eventsBut with their viewless Immanence,Find and acclaim with spirit-sense.
Over a scurf of rocks the tideWanders inward far and wide,Lifting the sea-weed's sloven hair,Filling the pools and foaming there,Sighing, sighing everywhere.
Merged are the marshes, merged the sands,Save the dunes with pine-tree handsStretching upward toward the sky,Where the sun, their god, moves high:Would I too had a god—yea, I!
For, the sea is to me but sea,And the sky but infinity.Tides and times are but some chanceBorn of a primal atom-dance.All is a mesh of Circumstance.
In it there is no Heart—no Soul—No illimitable Goal—Only wild happenings, by wontMade into laws no might can shuntFrom the deep grooves in which they hunt.
Wings of the gull I watch or clawsOf the cold crab whose strangeness awes:Faces of men that feel the forceOf a hid thing they call life's course:It is their hoping or remorse.
Yet it may be that I have missedSomething that only they who tryst,Not with the sequence of eventsBut with their viewless Immanence,Find and acclaim with spirit-sense.
Fog, and a wind that blows the seaBlindly into my eyes.And I know not if my soul shall beWhen the day dies.But if it be not and I loseAll that men live to gain—I who have known but heaving huesOf wind and rain—Still I shall envy no man's lot,For I have held this great,Never in whines to have forgotThat Fate is Fate.
Fog, and a wind that blows the seaBlindly into my eyes.And I know not if my soul shall beWhen the day dies.
But if it be not and I loseAll that men live to gain—I who have known but heaving huesOf wind and rain—
Still I shall envy no man's lot,For I have held this great,Never in whines to have forgotThat Fate is Fate.
Three times the fog rolled in today, a silent shroud,From which the breakers ran like ghosts, moaning and tumbling.Three times a startled sea-bird cried aloud,On the wind stumbling.But I cast my net with never a fear, tho wraiths in meAnd birds of wild unrest were stirring and starting and crying.For I knew that under the sway of every seaThere is calm lying.
Three times the fog rolled in today, a silent shroud,From which the breakers ran like ghosts, moaning and tumbling.Three times a startled sea-bird cried aloud,On the wind stumbling.
But I cast my net with never a fear, tho wraiths in meAnd birds of wild unrest were stirring and starting and crying.For I knew that under the sway of every seaThere is calm lying.
I flung a wild rose into the sea,I know not why.For swinging there on a rathe rose-tree,By the scented bay and barberry,Its petals gave all their sweet to me,As I passed by.And yet I flung it into the tide,And went my way.I climbed the gray rocks, far and wide,And many a cove of peace I tried,With none of them all to be satisfied,The whole long day.For I had wasted a beautiful thing,Which might have wonEach passing heart to pause and sing,On the sea-path there, of its blossoming.And who wastes beauty shall feel want's sting,As I had done.
I flung a wild rose into the sea,I know not why.For swinging there on a rathe rose-tree,By the scented bay and barberry,Its petals gave all their sweet to me,As I passed by.
And yet I flung it into the tide,And went my way.I climbed the gray rocks, far and wide,And many a cove of peace I tried,With none of them all to be satisfied,The whole long day.
For I had wasted a beautiful thing,Which might have wonEach passing heart to pause and sing,On the sea-path there, of its blossoming.And who wastes beauty shall feel want's sting,As I had done.
I was content, O Sea, to be free for a space from striving,Content as the brown weed is, at rest on rocks in the sun,When the salt tide is out, and the surf no more is rivingAt its roots, or swirling and bidding it sway where the white waves run.I was content—with life, and love, and a little over;A little achieved of the much that is given to men to do.But now with your tidal strife do you come again, vain rover,And tell of vastitudes, to be sailed, or sounded, anew.Now again do you surge. And the fathomless tides of thinking,Of wanting, waiting, despairing—or daring—with you come;The inner tides of the soul, that had ebbed with slumberous shrinking,But now are bursting again, thro the caves of it long numb.So vainly I lie on the cliff with the blissful Blue above meAnd listless sated gulls afloat below on the swells,For I am soothless, sateless, because of desires that shove meOut and away with the winds, on quests no distance quells!
I was content, O Sea, to be free for a space from striving,Content as the brown weed is, at rest on rocks in the sun,When the salt tide is out, and the surf no more is rivingAt its roots, or swirling and bidding it sway where the white waves run.
I was content—with life, and love, and a little over;A little achieved of the much that is given to men to do.But now with your tidal strife do you come again, vain rover,And tell of vastitudes, to be sailed, or sounded, anew.
Now again do you surge. And the fathomless tides of thinking,Of wanting, waiting, despairing—or daring—with you come;The inner tides of the soul, that had ebbed with slumberous shrinking,But now are bursting again, thro the caves of it long numb.
So vainly I lie on the cliff with the blissful Blue above meAnd listless sated gulls afloat below on the swells,For I am soothless, sateless, because of desires that shove meOut and away with the winds, on quests no distance quells!
A stroke of lightning stabbed the storm-black sea,As if it sought the heart of Life thereunder,And meant to put an end to it utterly;—Then came thunder—Wildly applauding thunder.Riven with fear the foam-crests ran before it,Hissed by the rain and beaten down to darkness.A gull rose out of the murk with wings that tore it—Life's answer to the storm's terrible starkness.
A stroke of lightning stabbed the storm-black sea,As if it sought the heart of Life thereunder,And meant to put an end to it utterly;—Then came thunder—Wildly applauding thunder.
Riven with fear the foam-crests ran before it,Hissed by the rain and beaten down to darkness.A gull rose out of the murk with wings that tore it—Life's answer to the storm's terrible starkness.
The quivering terns dart wild and dive,As the tide comes tumbling in.The calm rock-pools grow all alive,With the tide tumbling in.The crab who under the brown weed creeps,And the snail who lies in his house and sleeps,Awake and stir, as the plunging sweepsOf the tide come tumbling in.Gray driftwood swishes along the sand,As the tide comes tumbling in.With wreck and wrack from many a land,On the tide, tumbling in.About the beach are a broken spar,A pale anemone's torn sea-starAnd scattered scum of the waves' old war,As the tide tumbles in.And, oh, there is a stir at the heart of me,As the tide comes tumbling in.All life once more is a part of me,As the tide tumbles in.New hopes awaken beneath despairAnd thoughts slip free of the sloth of care,While beauty and love are everywhere—As the tide comes tumbling in.
The quivering terns dart wild and dive,As the tide comes tumbling in.The calm rock-pools grow all alive,With the tide tumbling in.The crab who under the brown weed creeps,And the snail who lies in his house and sleeps,Awake and stir, as the plunging sweepsOf the tide come tumbling in.
Gray driftwood swishes along the sand,As the tide comes tumbling in.With wreck and wrack from many a land,On the tide, tumbling in.About the beach are a broken spar,A pale anemone's torn sea-starAnd scattered scum of the waves' old war,As the tide tumbles in.
And, oh, there is a stir at the heart of me,As the tide comes tumbling in.All life once more is a part of me,As the tide tumbles in.New hopes awaken beneath despairAnd thoughts slip free of the sloth of care,While beauty and love are everywhere—As the tide comes tumbling in.
Flowers are dancing, waves playing, pines swaying, gulls are a-swarm;Sea and heather, sunning together, glad of the weather, with God are warm.Flowers are dancing, clouds winging, larks singing, summer abrew—Summer the old ecstatic passion of Life to fashion the world anew.
Flowers are dancing, waves playing, pines swaying, gulls are a-swarm;Sea and heather, sunning together, glad of the weather, with God are warm.
Flowers are dancing, clouds winging, larks singing, summer abrew—Summer the old ecstatic passion of Life to fashion the world anew.
Low along the sea, low along the sea,The gray gulls are flying, and one sail swings;The tide is foaming in; the soft wind sighing;The brown kelp is stretching, to the surf, harp-strings.Low along the sea, low along the sea,The gray gulls are flying, and one sail fades;The tide is foaming out; the soft wind dying;And white stars are peeping from the night's pale shades.
Low along the sea, low along the sea,The gray gulls are flying, and one sail swings;The tide is foaming in; the soft wind sighing;The brown kelp is stretching, to the surf, harp-strings.
Low along the sea, low along the sea,The gray gulls are flying, and one sail fades;The tide is foaming out; the soft wind dying;And white stars are peeping from the night's pale shades.
Into port when the sun was settingRode the ship that bore my love,Over the breakers wildly fretting,Under the skies above.Down to the beach I ran to meet him;He would come as he had said:And he came—in a sailor's coffin,Dead! . . . . . .O the ships of the sea! the loversTorn by them apart!...The tide has nothing now to tell me,The breakers break my heart!
Into port when the sun was settingRode the ship that bore my love,Over the breakers wildly fretting,Under the skies above.
Down to the beach I ran to meet him;He would come as he had said:And he came—in a sailor's coffin,Dead! . . . . . .
O the ships of the sea! the loversTorn by them apart!...The tide has nothing now to tell me,The breakers break my heart!
Give me the tiller; up with the sail!Now let her swing to the breeze.Out to sea with a dripping rail,To sea, with a heart at ease!Out of the Harbour! out of the Bay!Out by the valiant Light,Out by rocks where the young gulls lay—And glad winds teach them flight!Out of the Harbour! out of the Bay!Out to the open sea!O there's not in the world a wayTo feel so wildly free!So, let her quiver! So, let her leap!So, let her dance the foam!All life else is a narrow keep,The sea alone is home!
Give me the tiller; up with the sail!Now let her swing to the breeze.Out to sea with a dripping rail,To sea, with a heart at ease!
Out of the Harbour! out of the Bay!Out by the valiant Light,Out by rocks where the young gulls lay—And glad winds teach them flight!
Out of the Harbour! out of the Bay!Out to the open sea!O there's not in the world a wayTo feel so wildly free!
So, let her quiver! So, let her leap!So, let her dance the foam!All life else is a narrow keep,The sea alone is home!
Give over, O sea! You never shall reach Nirvana!Your tides, like the tidal generations, ever shall rise and fall,And your infinite waves find birth, rebirth, and billowy dissolution.The years of your existence are unending.The years of your unresting are forever.The sun, who is desire, ever begets in you his passion,And the moon is ever drawing you, with silvery soft alluring,To surge and sway, to wander and fret, to waste yourself in foam.So Buddha-calm shall never descend upon you.And tho it may often seem you have found the Way,Your tempest-sins return and quicken to wild reincarnations,And again great life, pulsing and perilous,Omnipotent life, that ever resurges thro the universe,Lashes you back to striving, back to yearning, back to speech.To utterance on all shores of the worldOf things unutterable.Give over then, you never shall reach Nirvana!Nor I, who am your acolyte for a moment;Who swing a censer of fragrant words before your priestly feet,That tread these altar-rocks, bedraped with weeds gently afloat,And with the wild flutter of gulls wildly mysterious.Give over and call your winds again to join you!O chanter of deep enchantments, of uncharted litanies,Call them and bid them say with you that life transcends retreat,And that, in the temple of its Immanence,There is no peace that does not spring daily from peacelessness,And no Nirvana save in the lee of storm.
Give over, O sea! You never shall reach Nirvana!Your tides, like the tidal generations, ever shall rise and fall,And your infinite waves find birth, rebirth, and billowy dissolution.
The years of your existence are unending.The years of your unresting are forever.The sun, who is desire, ever begets in you his passion,And the moon is ever drawing you, with silvery soft alluring,To surge and sway, to wander and fret, to waste yourself in foam.So Buddha-calm shall never descend upon you.
And tho it may often seem you have found the Way,Your tempest-sins return and quicken to wild reincarnations,And again great life, pulsing and perilous,Omnipotent life, that ever resurges thro the universe,Lashes you back to striving, back to yearning, back to speech.To utterance on all shores of the worldOf things unutterable.
Give over then, you never shall reach Nirvana!Nor I, who am your acolyte for a moment;Who swing a censer of fragrant words before your priestly feet,That tread these altar-rocks, bedraped with weeds gently afloat,And with the wild flutter of gulls wildly mysterious.
Give over and call your winds again to join you!O chanter of deep enchantments, of uncharted litanies,Call them and bid them say with you that life transcends retreat,And that, in the temple of its Immanence,There is no peace that does not spring daily from peacelessness,And no Nirvana save in the lee of storm.
A lone palm leans in the moonlight,Over a convent wall.The sea below is waking and breakingWith a calm heave and fall.A young nun sits at a window;For Heaven she is too fair;Yet even the dove of God might nestIn her bosom beating there.A lone ship sails from the harbour:Whom does it bear away?Her lover who, sin-hearted, has partedAnd left her but to pray?She has no lover, nor everHas heard afar love's sigh.Only the Convent's vesper vowHas ever dimmed her eye.For naught knows she of her beauty,More than the palm of its peace:And none shall cross her portal, to mortalDesires to bend her knees.The ways of the world have flowers,And any who will pluck those;But in His hand, against all harm,God still will keep some rose.
A lone palm leans in the moonlight,Over a convent wall.The sea below is waking and breakingWith a calm heave and fall.A young nun sits at a window;For Heaven she is too fair;Yet even the dove of God might nestIn her bosom beating there.
A lone ship sails from the harbour:Whom does it bear away?Her lover who, sin-hearted, has partedAnd left her but to pray?She has no lover, nor everHas heard afar love's sigh.Only the Convent's vesper vowHas ever dimmed her eye.
For naught knows she of her beauty,More than the palm of its peace:And none shall cross her portal, to mortalDesires to bend her knees.The ways of the world have flowers,And any who will pluck those;But in His hand, against all harm,God still will keep some rose.
The clouds in woe hang far and dim;I look again, and lo,Only a faint and shadow lineOf shore—I watch it go.The gulls have left the ship and wheelBack to the cliff's gray wraith.Will it be so of all our thoughtsWhen we set sail on Death?And what will the last sight be of lifeAs lone we fare and fast?Grief and a face we love in mist—Then night and awe too vast?Or the dear light of Hope—like that,Oh, see, from the lost shoreKindling and calling "Onward, youShall reach the Evermore!"
The clouds in woe hang far and dim;I look again, and lo,Only a faint and shadow lineOf shore—I watch it go.
The gulls have left the ship and wheelBack to the cliff's gray wraith.Will it be so of all our thoughtsWhen we set sail on Death?
And what will the last sight be of lifeAs lone we fare and fast?Grief and a face we love in mist—Then night and awe too vast?
Or the dear light of Hope—like that,Oh, see, from the lost shoreKindling and calling "Onward, youShall reach the Evermore!"
"Cale Young Rice is far too great a pout to be acclaimed in some partisan circles.... He is intensely American ... as authentic an artist as Shelley or Keats.... He has the magic of Poe without that poet's morbidity.... He is America's living master-poet."—D. F. Hannigan (The Rochester Post-Express).
"This volume maintains Mr. Rice's usual high level and proves anew his right to one of the high places among modern poets."—Edward J. Wheeler (Current Opinion).
"Mr. Rice is modern in the broadest sense of that term. Many of his poems are without rhyme and have irregular metres, but they never offend thereby.... His place in contemporary first class company is secure.—The Springfield Republican.
"A volume possessing range and variety, together with a lyric quality which distinguishes this poet, who ranks among the foremost American writers."—The Post-Intelligencer (Seattle).
"Mr. Rice in his dramas is an enchanter, and to cast a spell is better than to have uttered the most lovely lyrics—but he has done both."—E. A. Jonas (The Louisville Herald).
"A new volume showing again the power and beauty of Mr. Rice's genius."—The Boston Globe.
"What a pleasure to take up a new book by Cale Young Rice. Here we have variety, if ever.... If one can only own one of his books this is a good volume to choose."—The Galveston News.
"Cale Young Rice is a poet capable of sounding the deep imaginative strain not only with melody, but with vigor and power of thought. This volume will add another shining stone to his reputation."—The San Francisco Chronicle.
"Once more a book of the same high order as all Mr. Rice's work."—The Rochester Democrat-Chronicle.
"Shadowy Thresholds has as great a variety of poetic forms as any volume of late years.... Mr. Rice illumines many phases of life, uniting in his work the finish and romance of the older poetry with the directness that constitutes the best merit of the new."—The Louisville Evening Post.
12mo. 179 pages. Price $1.50
"In the writing of lyrics Mr. Rice is unequalled by any modern poet.... One must go outside of contemporary life to find anything of similar excellence."—Gordon Ray Young (The Los Angeles Times).
"A new book by Mr. Rice is always an event in American letters...."—The New York Tribune.
"Here, for all to read, is poetic genius spurred and wrought upon ... by a rare and wondrous poetic inspiration.... It is like great chimes sounding—jangled at times or overborne—but always great."—The Philadelphia North American.
"Mr. Rice in his narratives can tell such tales as the old ballad-makers would have gloated over, and can make them contemporary and convincing. He can create life tragedies or comedies in a few lines and leave the reader with a sense of having been given a full meal of circumstance.... He is original without striving to be so, and one can never be embarrassed by the affirmation that he has come to hold a high place among poets of America."—The Chicago Tribune.
"Cale Young Rice has been credited with some of the finest poetry, and regarded as a distinguished master of lyric utterance, and this latest volume is warrant for such approval."—The Brooklyn Eagle.
"We find in Mr. Rice the large and elemental vision a poet must have to serve his people when overwhelmed by elemental sorrows and passions. His poetry is a spiritual force interpreting life in the various phases of intellect and emotion, with a beauty of finish and sense of form that are unerring."—The Louisville Post.
"All that has been said of Cale Young Rice, and that is much indeed, is justified in this latest volume."—The San Francisco Chronicle.
"Cale Young Rice is a real poet of genuine and sincere inspiration, never reminiscent or imitative or obvious, but singing from a full heart his keen, meditative songs."—The New York Times.
12mo. 187 pages. Price $1.50
"The great quality of Cale Young Rice's work is that, amid all distractions and changes in contemporary taste, it remains true to the central drift of great poetry. His interests are very wide ... and his books open up a most varied world of emotion and romance."—Gilbert Murray.
"The quality of Mr. Rice's work is high. It is seen at its best in his poetic dramas, which maintain an astonishing elevation and intensity of passion ... but his visionary and philosophical poems are nearly as fine. He has a thorough mastery of form, yet notwithstanding the ease of his verse it is never slipshod or mechanical."—The Spectator (London).
"With variations of phrase Cale Young Rice has been described by critics here and in America as "the most distinguished master of lyric utterance in the New World." ... He has dramatic genius ... and is a born maker of songs.... His later volumes confirm the judgment of those who have named him the first and most distinctive of modern American lyrists, and one of the world's true poets."—F. Heath (The London Bookman).
"Mr. Rice is an American poet whose reputation is deserved.... He has achieved a high position as poet and dramatist, a great fertility and variety of outlook being marked features of his work."—The London Times.
"Foremost among writers who have brought America into prominence in the realm of modern thought is Mr. Cale Young Rice.... 'Collected Plays and Poems' is one of the best offerings of verse we have had for long. Indeed, it has real brilliance.... Mr. Rice's plays are masterful."—The Book Monthly (London).
"Cale Young Rice is highly esteemed by readers wherever English is the native speech."—The Manchester Guardian.
"In Mr. Rice we have a voice such as America has rarely known before."—The Rochester (N. Y.) Post-Express.
"Mr. Rice of today is the poet who sang to us yesterday of the big, vital things of life.... With real genius he brings to the soul a sense of things many of us have but dimly sensed in all our years."—The Philadelphia Record.
"These volumes are an anthology wrought by a master hand and endowed with perennial vitality.... This writer is the most distinguished master of lyric utterance in the new world ... and he has contributed much to the scanty stock of American literary fame. Fashions in poetry come and go, and minor lights twinkle fitfully as they pass in tumultuous review. But these volumes are of the things that are eternal in poetic expression.... They embody the hopes and impulses of universal humanity."—The Philadelphia North-American.
"Mr. Rice has been hailed by too many critics as the poet of his country, if not of his generation, not to create a demand for a full edition of his works."—The Hartford (Conn.) Courant.
"This gathering of his forces stamps Mr. Rice as one of the world's true poets, remarkable alike for strength, versatility and beauty of expression."—The Chicago Herald (Ethel M. Colton).
"It is with no undue repetition that we speak of the very great range and very great variety of Mr. Rice's subject, inspiration, and mode of expression.... The passage of his spirit is truly from deep to deep."—Margaret S. Anderson (The Louisville Evening Post).
"It is good to find such sincere and beautiful work as is in these two volumes.... Here is a writer with no wish to purchase fame at the price of eccentricity of either form or subject."—The Independent.
"Mr. Rice's style is that of the masters.... Yet it is one that is distinctively American.... He will live with our great poets."—Louisville Herald (J. J. Cole).
"Mr. Rice is an American by birth, but he is not merely an American poet. Over existence and the whole world his vision extends. He is a poet of human life and his range is uncircumscribed."—The Baltimore Evening News.
"Viewing Mr. Rice's plays as a whole, I should say that his prime virtue is fecundity or affluence, the power to conceive and combine events resourcefully, and an abundance of pointed phrases which recalls and half restores the great Elisabethans. His aptitude for structure is great."—The Nation (O. W. Firkins).
"Mr. Rice has fairly won his singing robes and has a right to be ranked with the first of living poets. One must read the volumes to get an idea of their cosmopolitan breadth and fresh abiding charm.... The dramas, taken as a whole, represent the most important work of the kind that has been done by any living writer.... This work belongs to that great world where the mightiest spiritual and intellectual forces are forever contending; to that deeper life which calls for the rarest gifts of poetic expression."—The Book News Monthly (Albert S. Henry).
12mo. 2 vols. Price $4.00
"This book justifies the more than transatlantic reputation of its author."—The Sheffield (England) Daily Telegraph.
"It matters little that we hesitate between ranking Mr. Rice highest as dramatist or lyrist; what matters is that he has the faculty divine beyond any living poet of America; his inspiration is true, and his poetry is the real thing."—The London Bookman.
"It shows a wide range of thought and sympathy, and real skill in workmanship, while occasionally it rises to heights of simplicity and truth, that suggest such inspiration as should mean lasting fame."—The Daily Telegraph (London).
"It is great art—with great vitality."—James Lane Allen.
"Different from Paola and Francesca, but excelling it—or any of Stephen Phillips's work—in a vivid presentment of a supreme moment in the lives of the characters."—The New York Times.
"These poems are flashingly, glowingly full of the East.... What I am sure of in Mr. Rice is that here we have an American poet whom we may claim as ours."—William Dean Howells, in The North American Review.
"Mr. Rice has the technical cunning that makes up almost the entire equipment of many poets nowadays, but human nature is more to him always ... and he has the feeling and imaginative sympathy without which all poetry is but an empty and vain thing."—The London Bookman.
"It is as vivid as a page from Browning. Mr. Rice has the dramatic pulse."—James Huneker.
"It has real life and drama, not merely beautiful words, and so differs from the great mass of poetic plays."—Prof. Gilbert Murray.
"It is safe to say that were Mr. Rice an Englishman or a Frenchman, his reputation as his country's most distinguished poetic dramatist would have been assured by a more universal sign of recognition."—The Baltimore News.
"It is the most powerful, vital, and truly tragical drama written by an American for some years. There is genuine pathos, mighty yet never repellent passion, great sincerity and penetration, and great elevation and beauty of language."—The Chicago Post.
"Mr. Rice's work betrays wide sympathies with nature and life, and a welcome originality of sentiment and metrical harmony."—Sydney Lee.
"Cale Young Rice has written some of the finest poetry of the last decade, and is the author of the very best poetic dramas ever written by an American.... He is one of the few supreme lyrists ... and one of the few remaining lovers of beauty ... who write it. One of the very few writers ofvers librewho know just what they are doing."—The Los Angles Times.
"Another book by Cale Young Rice ... one of the few poetic geniuses this country has produced.... In its sixty or more poems may be found the hall mark of individuality that denotes preeminence and signalizes independence."—The Philadelphia North American.
"Mr. Rice attempts and succeeds in deepening the note of his singing ... keeping its brilliant technique, its intricate verse formation, but seeking all the while for words to interpret the profound things of life. The music of his lines is more perfect than ever, his rhythms fresh and varied."—Littell's Living Age.
"Cale Young Rice's work is always simple and sincere ... but that does not prevent him from voicing his song with passion and virility. Nearly all his poems have elevation of thought and feeling, with beauty of imagery and music."—The New York Times.
"Whether the forms of this book are lyrical, narrative, or dramatic, there is an excellence of workmanship that denotes the master hand.... And while the range of ideas is broad, the treatment of each is distinguished by a strength and beauty remarkably fine."—The Continent (Chicago).
"Mr. Rice proves the fine argument of his preface ... for this book has in it form and beauty and a full reflection of the externals as well as the soul of the America he loves."—The Philadelphia Public Ledger.
"The work of this poet always demands and receives unstinted admiration.... His is not the poetic fashion of the moment, but of all poetic time."—The Chicago Herald.
"In 'Trails Sunward,' Mr. Rice demonstrates as heretofore the possibility of attaining poetic growth and originality even in the Twentieth Century, without extremism.... Sanity linked with vitality and breadth in art make for permanence, and one can but feel that Mr. Rice builds for more than a day."—The Louisville Courier Journal.
"I rarely use the term 'sublimity,' yet in touches of 'The Foreseers,' particularly in its cavern-set opening, I should say that Mr. Rice had scaled that eminence."—O. W. Firkins (The Nation).
12mo. 150 pages. Price $1.50
"America has today no poet who answers so well the multiplex tests of poetry as does Cale Young Rice."—New York Sun.
"Glancing through the reviews quoted at the end of 'Earth and New Earth' we note that we have said some very enthusiastic things in praise of the poetry of Cale Young Rice, and yet there is not an adjective we would withdraw. On the contrary each new volume only confirms the expectation of the better work this writer was to produce."—The San Francisco Chronicle.
"This is a volume of verse rich in dramatic quality and beauty of conception.... Every poem is quotable and the collection must appeal to all who can appreciate the highest forms of modern verse."—The Bookseller (New York).
"Any one familiar with 'Cloister Lays,' 'The Mystic,' etc., does not need to be told that they rank with the very best poetry. And Mr. Rice's dramas are not equaled by any other American author's.... And when those who are loyal to poetic traditions cherished through the whole history of our language contemplate the anemia and artificiality of contemporaries, they can but assert that Mr. Rice has the grasp and sweep, the rhythm, imagery and pulsating sympathy, which in wondering admiration are ascribed to genius."—The Los Angeles Times.
"This latest collection shows no diminution in Mr. Rice's versatility or power of expression. Its poems are serious, keen, distinctively free and vitally spiritual in thought."—The Continent (Chicago).
"Mr. Rice is concerned with thoughts that are more than timely; they represent a large vision of the world events now transpiring ... and his affirmation of the spiritual in such an hour establishes him in the immemorial office of the poet-prophet.... The volume is a worthy addition to the large amount of his work."—Anna L. Hopper in The Louisville Courier-Journal.
"Cale Young Rice is the greatest living American poet."—D. F. Hannigan, Lit. Ed. The Rochester Post-Express.
"The indefinable spirit of swift imaginative suggestion is never lacking. The problems of fate are still big with mystery and propounded with tense elemental dramatism."—The Philadelphia North-American.
"The work of Cale Young Rice emerges clearly as the most distinguished offering of this country to the combined arts of poetry and the drama. 'Earth and New Earth' strikes a ringing new note of the earth which shall be after the War."—The Memphis Commercial-Appeal.
12mo. 158 pages. $1.50
"This volume of stories should hold its own with any collection likely to be published this year."—New York Post (The Literary Review).
"American writers have been distinctive as narrators of the short story, but few, if any, volumes of such stories have recently been published in this country equal to 'Turn About Tales.'"—D. F. Hannigan (The Rochester Post-Express).
"The gamut of the volume runs from spiritualism to the depths. It contains something of almost anything one happens to want. Better yet, it contains something new."—The Boston Transcript.
"Mr. Rice has written well—so well as to justify prediction that he will, if he elect to do so, achieve greater distinction as a short story writer than as a poet. His 'Lowry,' 'Francella' and 'Aaron Harwood,' to cite a few of the stories, meet the test of artistic stories.... Each leaves an impression that will impel re-reading."—Galveston News.
"Both writers portray, in their best vein, a consummate though distinctive skill in analyzing and delineating human emotions and experience."—Buffalo Commercial.
"Those who have read Mr. Rice's poetry will find his dramatic genius manifest in these stories."—The Watchman, N. Y.
"Mrs. Rice's humor and pathos combine well with Mr. Rice's mastery of diction and deep human understanding."—Milwaukee Journal.
"Each story is notable for beauty of technique ... each has its definite appeal."—Louisville Evening Post (Margaret S. Anderson).
"Each of the stories is of such finished workmanship as to make reading of it an unadulterated pleasure."—Baltimore Sun.
"The book is one of the best of the kind in this year's American fiction."—The Spectator (Portland, Ore.)
"Mr. Rice has grappled with the constructive problems of his time, so one finds them without surprise in this newly adopted vehicle.... Three of his stories have a realism as relentless as Chekov's ... and it goes without saying that his stories are technically admirable."—Louisville Courier-Journal.
"Mr. Rice so lives through his characters that, as Whitman says, he 'Is that man' of whom he writes."—Pittsburg Sun.
"The same dramatic power and beauty that mark Mr. Rice's lyrics will be found in these prose stories."—Cincinnati Times-Star.
"One seldom finds a book of short stories so satisfying throughout."—Minneapolis Journal.
Price $1.90