Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge

Is it this, Belovèd, this the secret?—
Life, the earth life, thee and me compelling,
Life and only life?—Where flowers have withered,
Lavished perfume on the impartial breezes,
Fed the bee and crowned the bush with beauty,
Then, the summer spent, the petals perish,
Then, the spring returned, the sap returning,
Novel buds that ripen to perfection,—
Flowers may fade but never so the impulse,
Shift the scenes the play goes on forever?—
Is it this, Belovèd, this the secret?

Oh, consider!—Sure that life endureth—
Do I kiss thy lips, thine adolescent
Breast of marble, do my fingers even
Touch thy hand, the perfume of thy tresses
Fall upon my sense, thy voice's cadence
Turn concordant all my soul's confusion—

Do I these, or look upon thee even,
Comes a certainty of life's persistence,
Life that speaks in thee, in me, in nature,
Life demanding choate form and substance,
Life pervasive, deathless and enduring.

Is it this, Belovèd, this the secret?
This I sing to, since the word suffices,
This thou hearest?—I strove to sing the man's song,
Sing the earth's song, Life, the strength and splendour!
Thou did'st lean and hark and comprehend me:—
Life abideth, thou must know—a lover!—
Thou did'st know and then, and then—I, pausing,
Hear you question, “Is it this, the secret?”
Hear you ask, “Is life the spirit's answer?
Shall the inward voice be stilled in living?”
Hear you wonder, “What's the good of life, then?
Why endure the pain and natural anguish,
Wherefore draw the furrow, sweat the year-long,
When the winter shuts its jaws of crystal,
Kills the generous spring, refuses fruitage—
This the secret? What's the good of life then?”

Ah, there's still a song—men strive to sing it,
Sing their striving, reach their goal, are silent.
What's the song?—No utterance can confine it
Only silence great enough to bear it.
I who cannot praise thee, thee my woman,

Singing life, as dim as life my verses,
Could I call the winds and waves to witness,
Could I pull the stars down from their courses,
Were I lion-voiced as old Jehovah,
Then my words could be but shadowy symbols;
None may phrase the spirit's simple knowledge,
And the secret and the revelation
Of what is not, where the mind of mortal
Turns to ashes and where life is tacit.

Oh, my Well-Beloved, forget the pæan!
Let the sword-blade and the gold and glory
Warp no longer thine eternal vision.
Seek thy soul, and, finding, cease from struggle;
Cease, forget the song of life and living;
That's the world's way—Life and more and endless,
Copious earth-life in its rich completion,
Life and death and after, Life eternal,
Sapphire pavements and the domes of opal,
Life of blended music fair and fancied:
Only life—what life might be—a vision!

Then the Soul's way: lapse from sound to silence,
Merge oblivious in entire ceasing
In thy nativeness, the matrix ocean,
Thou a spray-drop hung on slippery verges;
Ah! the world's way—thine to be no longer;
Thine the soul's way, thou hast seen and known it!

Like an empty tale the worlds shall vanish,
Frail as dream, and life be quite forgotten.
What of life-songs then, and what of death-songs?
Sound and fury down the babbling ages,
They shall cease, the echoes pass and perish;
On the void the 'stablishment eternal
Bides alone—the Soul's gigantic silence.

University of Virginia Library

AFTER-WORD