The Meandering Muse

Publishing tycoon William Randolph Hearst died on this date in 1951. His poem, Song of the River, written in 1941 when he was 78, begins:

Inspiration: the McCloud River

The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if life’s deep mystery
Isn’t much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.

I first came upon this reflective poem a few years after college. At the time the life-as-a-river imagery resonated with your humble blogger, whose arc of life no longer rose steeply.

Reading it again, I still respond positively, but less so. The verses go on and on, with too much explaining of the river metaphor. I like poems ("the best words in the best order", as my 5th grade teacher said) to be rich with multiple meanings...and shorter.

W.R. Hearst, whose life inspired Citizen Kane, had spectacular success in his youth followed by self-inflicted misfortunes. We read Song of the River today because of the importance of the poet---the Hearst newspapers reprint it annually on this date---and not so much the poem (reprinted in entirety after the break).




Song of the River
by W.R. Hearst

(photo from geni.com)

The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if life’s deep mystery
Isn’t much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream,
To the river below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life has passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O’er the selfsame track,
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran
Its allotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back
To the mountain-top
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run
The course begun
Till we reach the silent shore
Then revisit earth
In a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don’t ask why
We live or die,
Or whither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.