Around the Year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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Over the hilltops, the carpet of splendor
   Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again.
Along the horizon the tints that were tender,
   Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.
Only the mountains' high summits are hoary,
   To the ice-fettered River, the Sun gives a key.
Once more the waiting shore lists to the story
   Told by her wandering lover, the sea.

NO SPRING

Up from the South come the birds that were banished,
    Frightened away by the presence of frost.
Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished,
    Back to the forest the leaves that were lost.
Over the hillside the carpet of splendour
    Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again;
Along the horizon, the tints that were tender,
    Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.

Only the mountains' high summits are hoary,
    To the ice-fettered river the sun gives the key.
Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story
    Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea.
All things revive that in Winter-time perished,
    The rose buds again in the light o' the sun,
All that was beautiful, all that was cherished,
    Sweet things and dear things and all things---save one.

Late, when the year and the roses were lying
    Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom,
Down in the dust fell a love that was dying,
    And the snow piled above it, and made it a tomb.
Lo! now! the roses are budded for blossom---
    Lo! now! the Summer is risen again.
Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom?
    Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?

Life without love is a year without Summer,
    Heart without love is a wood without song.
Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer,
    Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long?
Rise! ah, thou canst not! the rose-tree that sheddest
    Its beautiful leaves, in the Spring time may bloom,
But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest,
    Love buried once, rises not from the tomb.

Green things may grow on the hillside and heather.
Birds seek the forest and build there and sing.
All things revive in the beautiful weather,
But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.

1st

June 1 And I feel as I sit here thinking,
That the hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,
And is drawing them up in tune

TIRED

I am tired to-night, and something,
The wind maybe, or the rain,
Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,
Has brought back the past and its pain.
And I feel as I sit here thinking,
That the hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,
And is drawing them up in tune.

I am tired to-night, and I miss you,
And long for you, love, through tears;
And it seems but to-day that I saw you go---
You, who have been gone for years.
And I seem to be newly lonely---
I, who am so much alone;
And the strings of my heart are well in tune,
But they have not the same old tone.

I am tired; and that old sorrow
Sweeps down the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river might suddenly break
Away from a dam's control.
It beareth a wreck on its bosom,
A wreck with a snow-white sail,
And the hand on my heart-strings thrums away,
But they only respond with a wail.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917

2nd

With the soul's fine ear
Attune thyself to harmonies divine;
All, all are written in the key of Love;
Keep to the score, and thou hast naught to fear.
Achievements yet undreamed of shall be thine

LUCK

Luck is the tuning of our inmost thought
To chord with God's great plan. That done, ah, know,
Thy silent wishes to results shall grow,
And day by day shall miracles be wrought.
Once let thy being selflessly be brought
To chime with universal good, and lo!
What music from the spheres shall through thee flow!
What benefits shall come to thee unsought!
Shut out the noise of traffic! Rise above
The body's clamor! With the soul's fine ear
Attune thyself to harmonies divine.
All, all are written in the key of Love;
Keep to the score, and thou hast naught to fear,
Achievements yet undreamed of shall be thine.

Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906

3rd

We two make home of any place we go;
We two find joy in any kind of weather;
Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow,
If summer days invite, or bleak winds blow,
What matters it, if we two are together?
We two, we two, we make our world, our weather.

WE TWO

We two make home of any place we go;
We two find joy in any kind of weather;
Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow,
If summer days invite, or bleak winds blow,
What matters it if we two are together?
We two, we two, we make our world, our weather.

We two make banquets of the plainest fare;
In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure;
We hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care
And win to smiles the set lips of despair.
For us life always moves with lilting measure;
We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure.

We two find youth renewed with every dawn;
Each day holds something of an unknown glory.
We waste no thought on grief or pleasure gone;
Tricked out like hope, time leads us on and on,
And thrums upon his harp new song or story.
We two, we two, we find the paths of glory.

We two make heaven here on this little earth;
We do not need to wait for realms eternal.
We know the use of tears, know sorrow's worth,
And pain for us is always love's rebirth.
Our paths lead closely by the paths supernal;
We two, we two, we live in love eternal.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.

4th

. When a soul
Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve,
All obstacles between it and its goal
Must vanish, as the dew before the sun

Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let
No "If" arise on which to lay the blame.
Man makes a mountain of that puny word,
But, like a blade of grass before the scythe,
It falls and withers when a human will,
Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.

Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance
Is but the toy of genius. When a soul
Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve,
All obstacles between it and its goal
Must vanish as the dew before the sun.

"If" is the motto of the dilettante
And idle dreamer; 'tis the poor excuse
Of mediocrity. The truly great
Know not the word, or know it but to scorn,
Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died,
Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

5th

But mortals are always complaining!
Each one thinks his own a sad lot,
And forgetting the good things about him,
Goes mourning for those he has not.
Instead of the star-spangled heavens,
We look on the dust at our feet;
We drain out the cup that is bitter,
Forgetting the one that is sweet

OUR BLESSINGS

Sitting to-day in the sunshine
That touched me with fingers of love,
I thought of the manifold blessings
God scatters on earth, from above;
And they seemed, as I numbered them over,
Far more than we merit, or need,
And all that we lack is the angels
To make earth a heaven indeed.

The winter brings long, pleasant evenings,
The spring brings a promise of flowers
That summer breathes into fruition;
And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
The woodlands re-echo with music,
The moonbeams ensilver the sea;
There is sunlight and beauty about us,
And the world is as fair as can be.

We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower,
Forgetting its odor and bloom;
We pass by a garden of blossoms,
To weep o'er the dust of the tomb.
There are blessings unnumbered about us--
Like the leaves of the forest they grow;
And the fault is our own--not the Giver's--
That we have not Eden below.

Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 187

6th

Love and sympathy were what made Christ divine

Inhumanity of Men to Beasts.

I have looked straight into the hearts of men,
And I know what the fretful, sad world needs.
To break like a child from its harsh nurse, creeds,
And sport with nature in field and glen

Where the tiny acorn unfolds a tree
To let God's miracles banish doubt;
To see the soul in each pushing sprout
And find a brother in bird and bee;

To look in the eyes of doe and dove,
And feel the sorrow of all dumb things,
And to know that we need not wait for wings
To carry the message of perfect love.

The crying sin of omission with Our clergymen
to-day is their silence regarding the inhu-
manity of men to animals.
I believe Henry Bergh did more toward evangel-
izing the world than all our ministers of the gospel
are doing.
He set people to thinking in the right way, and
along the right channels.
Love and sympathy were what made Christ
divine.
No man has Christ in his heart who can see
animals abused without a Protest.
A clergyman came to call on a lady friend of
mine, and she saw from her window that he left his
horse tied with his head checked cruelly high. She
sent a servant to uncheck the animal, and gave the
"man of God" a sharp reproof beside.
Another clergyman sent his coachman with a
basket of kittens to leave in a strange dooryard.
It would be easier to find salvation blindfolded
than through such a man's teaching.
Did you ever look into the faces of the horses you
see on the street and note their different expres-
sions? They vary as much as do the faces of
human beings.
Well-groomed, well-cared-for carriage horses have
an alert, proud, spirited expression. A horse which
is driven with a short check carries a strained, rest-
less, impatient look in his eye. The absolute hope-
lessness, the dull despair in the faces of street-car
horses, and those attached to delivery, baggage
wagons and trucks, is enough to touch the heart of
a sympathetic observer. It is like the look of the
worn-out laborer or over-burdened old woman one
sees scrubbing public stairways.
Occasionally, but rarely, I see an absolutely
happy-looking horse. One smiled at me as I passed
him the other day. He belonged to a public cab
and I saw no coachman near.
I was so pleasantly impressed by his amiable,
contented look that I walked back to see him again,
and I found the cause of his happiness.
The cabman had returned and was patting him
on the nose, smoothing his sides, and talking to him
in a gentle, friendly voice. The horse felt he was
his driver's friend. He lived in an atmosphere of
affectionate kindness, and work became pleasure
and life was worth living.
I believe there are hundreds of horses in this city
to-day whose hearts are breaking for a little
sympathy and kindness.
Meantime, man is devising cruel machines to tear
their delicate mouths, arch their tired necks, and
chop their beautiful tails. And not a word is said
against it by the clergymen.
There ought to be a Sunday set apart called the
"Animal Sunday." It is far more important than
"Palm Sunday." Ministers ought to talk to their
congregations about the duty we owe animals; and
the hideous crime which scores of orthodox people
perpetrate every spring in going away and leaving
their cats unprovided for ought to be strongly scored.
Cats are the most sensitive, nervous, cleanly
animals in the world. They are, too, intensely
affectionate and devoted to people they love, as well
as to places. When a cat which has had a good
home is left to run in the streets and alleys, or is
dropped in some field or strange dooryard, its mental
sufferings are beyond description.
Its affectionate nature is wounded, and it feels all
the humiliation of a soiled, starved existence which
a delicate human being would feel if similarly
situated. And it has not the reason, the faith, or
philosophy which helps people in such cases.
Of course, there are cats who are born ingrates
and tramps, just as there are men of this sort. But
after careful observations of animals and people, I
must confess I find more two-footed ingrates than
I find among the quadrupeds.
I wish the Salvation Army people, who are so full
of the real spirit of Christ, would introduce the
thought of consideration toward animals into their
work. It is a great pity that Christians have so
much less sympathy and kindness in their conduct
toward dumb beasts than the followers of Buddha.
There are many things we can teach the Orien-
tals, but there are also many important things they
can teach us, and one important thought they need
to teach our orthodox people is that human beings
do not monopolize all the souls created by God.
Everything which exists is possessed of the
Divine spark, and when we learn to think of horses,
dogs, and cats as our brothers who are handicapped
in the race of life, the world will be the better for it.

Every-day thoughts in prose and verse. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: W. B. Conkey Company, 1901.

7th

Necessity, whom long I deemed my foe,
Thou cold, unsmiling and hard-visaged dame,
Now I no longer see thy face, I know
Thou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame.

My best achievements and the fairest flights
Of my winged fancy were inspired by thee;
Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights;
Thy importunings bade me do and be

NECESSITY

Necessity, whom long I deemed my foe,
Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged dame,
Now I no longer see thy face, I know
Thou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame.

My best achievements and the fairest flights
Of my winged fancy were inspired by thee;
Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights;
Thy importunings bade me do and be.

But for thy breath, the spark of living fire
Within me might have smouldered out at length;
But for thy lash which would not let me tire,
I never would have measured my own strength.

But for thine oft-times merciless control
Upon my life, that nerved me past despair,
I never should have dug deep in my soul
And found the mine of treasures hidden there.

And though we walk divided pathways now,
And I no more may see thee, to the end,
I weave this little chaplet for thy brow,
That other hearts may know, and hail thee friend.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917

8th

For pausing sometimes on the way,
And seeking those who've gone astray,
Restoring them to light and day,
We've time enough to spare, my friend.
To stop and lift some other's load
Will lighten ours upon the road,
And can but help us in the end

UPON THE WAY

For pausing on the way awhile
To make some other pilgrim smile,
E'en though it puts us back a mile,
We've time enough for that, my friend.
The day is long, and bright, and glad;
To stop a bit and cheer the sad,
Will never hinder in the end.

To loiter ever now and then,
To answer bitter words of men,
And give for scoff a scoff again,
We have not time for that, my friend.
The night is nearer than we know;
To stop and deal out blow for blow
Will hinder sorely in the end.

For pausing sometimes on the way,
And seeking some who've gone astray,
Restoring them to light and day,
We've time enough to spare, my friend.
To stop and lift some other's load,
Will lighten ours upon the road,
And can but help us in the end.

To linger by the road and wait
Some season to retaliate
For every spiteful act of hate,
We have no time to spare, my friend.
To stone each barking dog we hear,
To kill each insect flying near,
Will only hinder in the end.

To sum it up in words like these,
We've time to praise, but none to tease;
We've time to soothe, and time to please,
But none to grieve or wound, my friend.
And if we wisely spend each day,
We'll find true pleasure on the way,
And God will help us to the end.

Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 1876

9th

Say to yourself: "Health, luck, usefulness, success
are mine. I claim them." Keep thinking that
thought, no matter what happens, just as you would
put one foot before another if you had a mountain to
climb. Keep on, keep on, and suddenly you will find
you are on the heights, luck beside you!

Common Sense

f you are suffering from physical
ills, ask yourself if it is not your
own fault.
There is scarcely one person in
one hundred who does not over
eat or drink.
I know an entire family who complain of
gastric troubles, yet who keep the coffee pot con-
tinually on the range and drink large quantities
of that beverage at least twice a day.
No one can be well who does that. Almost
every human ailment can be traced to foolish
diet.
Eat only two meals in twenty-four hours. If
you are not engaged in active physical labor,
make it one meal. Drink two or three or four
quarts of milk at intervals during the day to
supply good blood to the system.
You will thrive upon it, and you will not
miss the other two meals after the first week.
And your ailments will gradually disappear.
Meantime, if you are self supporting, your
bank account will increase.
Think of the waste of money which goes into
indigestible food! It is appalling when you con-
sider it. Heaven speed the time when men and
women find out how little money it requires to
sustain the body in good health and keep the
brain clear and the eye bright!
The heavy drinker is to-day looked upon with
pity and scorn. The time will come when the
heavy eater will be similarly regarded.
Once find the delight of a simple diet, the
benefit to body and mind and purse, and life will
assume new interest, and toil will be robbed of
its drudgery, for it will cease to be a mere
matter of toiling for a bare existence.
Again, are you unhappy? Stop and ask
yourself why. If you have a great sorrow, time
will be your consoler. And there is an ennobl-
ing and enriching effect of sorrow well borne.
It is the education of the soul. But if you
are unhappy over petty worries and trials, you
are wearing yourself to no avail; and if you are
allowing small things to irritate and harass you
and to spoil the beautiful days for you, take
yourself in hand and change your ways.
You can do it if you chose. It is pitiful to
observe what sort of troubles most unhappy
people are afflicted with. I have seen a beauti-
ful young woman grow care lined and faded just
from imagining she was being "slighted" or
neglected by her acquaintances.
Some one nodded coldly to her, another one
spoke superciliously, a third failed to invite her,
a fourth did not pay her a call, and so on--
always a grievance to relate until one is pre-
pared to look sympathetic at the sight of her.
And such petty, petty grievances for this
great, good life to be marred by!
And all the result of her own disposition.
Had she chosen to look for appreciation and
attention and good will she would have found it
everywhere.
Then, about your temper? Is it flying loose
over a trifle? Are you making yourself and
everyone else wretched if a chair is out of
place, or a meal a moment late, or some mem-
ber of the family is tardy at dinner, or your shoe
string is in a tangle or your collar button mis-
laid?
Do you go to pieces nervously if you are
obliged to repeat a remark to some one who did
not understand you? I have known a home to
be ruined by just such infinitesimal annoyances.
It is a habit, like a drug or alcohol habit--
this irritability.
All you need do is to stop it. Keep your
voice from rising, and speak slowly and calmly
when you feel yourself giving way to it. Realize
how ridiculous and disagreeable you will be if
you continue, what an unlovely and hideous old
age you are preparing for yourself. And realize
that a loose temper is a sign of vulgarity and
lack of culture.
Think of the value of each day of life, how
much it means and what possibilities of happi-
ness and usefulness it contains if well spent.
But if you stuff yourself like an anaconda,
dwell on the small worries and grow angry at
the least trifle, you are committing as great and
inexcusable a folly as if you flung your furniture
and garments and food and fuel into the sea in a
spirit of wanton cruelty. You are wasting life
for nothing. Every sick, gloomy day you pass is
a sin against life. Get health, be cheerful, keep
calm.
Clear your mind of every gloomy, selfish
angry or revengeful thought. Allow no resent-
ment or grudge toward man or fate to stay in
your heart over night.
Wake in the morning with a blessing for
every living thing on your lips and in your soul.
Say to yourself: "Health, luck, usefulness, suc-
cess, are mine. I claim them." Keep thinking
that thought, no matter what happens, just as
you would put one foot before another if you had
a mountain to climb. Keep on, keep on, and
suddenly you will find you are on the heights"
luck beside you.
Whoever follows this recipe cannot fail of
happiness, good fortune and a useful life. But
saying the words over once and then drifting back
to anger, selfishness, revenge and gloom will do
no good.
The words must be said over and over, and
thought and lived when not said.

The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902.

10th

And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely that my work availeth,
And in God's season, I at last shall reap

"BE NOT WEARY"

Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,
All tired out, with working long, and well,
And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,
And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
These words have come to me, like angel fingers,
Pressing the spirit eyelids down in sleep.
"Oh let us not be weary in well doing,
For in due season we shall surely reap."

Oh blessed promise! when I seem to hear it,
Whispered by angel voices on the air,
It breathes new life, and courage to my spirit,
And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.
And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely, that my work availeth,
And in God's season, I at last shall reap.

When mind and body were borne down completely
And I have thought my efforts were all vain,
These words have come to me, so softly, sweetly,
And whispered hope, and urged me on again.
And though my labor seems all unavailing,
And all my strivings fruitless, yet the Lord
Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter,
And sometime, sometime , I shall reap reward.

1870.

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 187

11th

But friendship is not friendship at the best
Till circumstances put it to the test

I step across the mystic border-land,
And look upon the wonder-world of Art.
How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!
And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!

The winding paths that lead up to the heights
Are polished by the footsteps of the great.
The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon
Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.

Here are no sounds of discord--no profane
Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--
Only the songs of chisels and of pens,
Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains
Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief
For any day or object left behind--
For time is counted precious, and herein
Is such complete abandonment of Self
That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance
The beauty of the land where all is fair.

Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here
Where the great artists of the world have trod--
The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
Only the singer of a little song;
Yet loving Art with such a mighty love
I hold it greater to have won a place
Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,
Than in the outer world of greed and gain
To sit upon a royal throne and reign

Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy

12th

How do you meet the mighty griefs
That rush upon the soul,
Engulfing it in bitterness,
As angry waters roll?How do you live at all , is one
Deep mystery to me,
Oh, you who never lift the heart
And never bend the knee

O! you who never bend the knee,
And never lift the heart,
How do you live from year to year,
And living, act your part.

How do you rise up in the morn,
And pass the whole day through,
Without the Saviour at your side
To guide and strengthen you.

How do you meet the daily ills
That try the temper so!
That fret the heart and wear the soul
More than some master woe.

How do you close your eyes and sleep,
And how your crosses bear;
(Each has a cross, or small, or large)
Without the aid of prayer?

How do you meet the mighty griefs,
That rush upon the soul,
Engulfing it in bitterness,
As angry waters roll?

How do you live at all , is one
Deep mystery to me,
Oh you who never lift the heart
And never bend the knee.

1870

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873

13th

Pray on, sad heart,
That which thou pleadest for may not be given,
But in the lofty altitude where souls
Who supplicate God's grace are lifted, there
Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot,
Which is not elsewhere found.

UNANSWERED PRAYERS

Like some school master, kind in being stern,
Who hears the children crying o'er their slates
And calling, "Help me, master!" yet helps not,
Since in his silence and refusal lies
Their self-development, so God abides
Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf
To any cry sent up from earnest hearts;
He hears and strengthens when He must deny.
He sees us weeping over life's hard sums,
But should He give the key and dry our tears,
What would it profit us when school were done
And not one lesson mastered?
What a world
Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not
In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills
As lie in human hearts. Should our desires,
Voiced one by one in prayer, ascend to God
And come back as events shaped to our wish,
What chaos would result!
In my fierce youth
I sighed out breath enough to move a fleet,
Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons
Which were denied; and that denial bends
My knee to prayers of gratitude each day
Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers
I rose alway regirded for the strife
And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart,
That which thou pleadest for may not be given,
But in the lofty altitude where souls
Who supplicate God's grace are lifted, there
Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot
Which is not elsewhere found.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

14th

PRESUMPTION

Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder--
I check myself, and say, "That mighty One
Who made the solar system cannot blunder--
And for the best all things are being done."
Who set the stars on their eternal courses
Has fashioned this strange earth by some sure plan.
Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces
Nor dare to doubt their wisdom--puny man.

You can not put one little star in motion,
You can not shape one single forest leaf,
Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean,
Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief.
You can not bring one dawn of regal splendor,
Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,
Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender,
And dare you doubt the One who has done all?

"So much is wrong, there is such pain--such sinning."
Yet look again--behold how much is right!
And He who formed the world from its beginning
Knows how to guide it upward to the light.
Your task, oh, man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil.
That is the way to help the world along.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

15th

Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil.
That is the way to help the world along

NOW

I leave with God, to-morrow's where and how,
And do concern myself but with the Now,
That little word though half the future's length
Well used, holds twice its meaning and its strength.

Like one blindfolded groping out his way,
I will not try to touch beyond to-day.
Since all the future is concealed from sight
I need but strive to make the next step right.

That done the next, and so on, till I find
Perchance some day I am no longer blind,
And looking up, behold a radiant Friend
Who says, "Rest, now, for you have reached the end."

Your task, oh, man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil.
That is the way to help the world along.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

16th

Do you wish the world were better?
Let me tell you what to do.
Set a watch upon your actions,
Keep them always straight and true.
Rid your mind of selfish motives,
Let your thoughts be clean and high,
You can make a little Eden
Of the sphere you occupy

WISHING

Do you wish the world were better?
Let me tell you what to do.
Set a watch upon your actions,
Keep them always straight and true.
Rid your mind of selfish motives,
Let your thoughts be clean and high.
You can make a little Eden
Of the sphere you occupy.

Do you wish the world were wiser?
Well, suppose you make a start,
By accumulating wisdom
In the scrapbook of your heart;
Do not waste one page on folly;
Live to learn, and learn to live.
If you want to give men knowledge
You must get it, ere you give.

Do you wish the world were happy?
Then remember day by day
Just to scatter seeds of kindness
As you pass along the way,
For the pleasures of the many
May be ofttimes traced to one,
As the hand that plants an acorn
Shelters armies from the sun.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

17th

If you would help to make the wrong things right,
Begin at home; there lies a life-time's toil.
Weed your own garden fair for all men's sight
Before you plan to till another's soil

MISSION

If you are sighing for a lofty work,
If great ambitions dominate your mind,
Just watch yourself and see you do not shirk
The common little ways of being kind.

If you are dreaming of a future goal,
When crowned with glory men shall own your power,
Be careful that you let no struggling soul
Go by unaided in the present hour.

If you are moved to pity for the earth,
And long to aid it, do not look so high,
You pass some poor, dumb creature faint with thirst.
All life is equal in the eternal eye.

If you would help to make the wrong things right,
Begin at home: there lies a lifetime's toil.
Weed your own garden fair for all men's sight,
Before you plan to till another's soil.

God chooses his own leaders in the world,
And from the rest he asks but willing hands.
As mighty mountains into place are hurled,
While patient tides may only shape the sands.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

18th

We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields,
And toil while daylight lasts; when I bethink
How brief the past, the future still more brief,
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse

HIGH NOON

Time's finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We cannot count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink
How brief the past, the future, still more brief
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip
Be my reminder in temptation's hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn.
Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.

Looking back,
My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And made me value virtue; sorrows shine
In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years,
Where lie forgotten pleasures.

Looking forth,
Out to the western sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.

Battling with fate, with men and with myself,
Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon,
Three things I learned, three things of precious worth,
To guide and help me down the western slope.
I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save:
To pray for courage to receive what comes,
Knowing what comes to be divinely sent;
To toil for universal good, since thus
And only thus can good come unto me;
To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have
To those who have not--this alone is gain.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

19th

When any man says his life is worthless, it is
because he has eyes and sees not, and ears and hears
not.

Optimism

ot long ago I read the following
gloomy bit of pessimism from the
pen of a man bright enough to
know better than to add to the
mental malaria of the world. He
said:

Life is a hopeless battle in which we are fore-
doomed to defeat. And the prize for which we
strive "to have and to hold" what is it? A
thing that is neither enjoyed while had, nor
missed when lost. So worthless it is, so unsatis-
fying, so inadequate to purpose, so false to hope
compensation we set up fantastic faiths of an
aftertime in a better world from which no con-
firming whisper has ever reached us out of the
void. Heaven is a prophecy uttered by the lips
of despair, but Hell is an inference from history.

This is morbid and unwholesome talk which
can do no human being any good to utter, or
listen to.
But it can depress and discourage the weak
and struggling souls, who are striving to make
the best of circumstances, and it can nerve to
suicide the hand of some half-crazed being, who
needed only a word of encouragement and cheer
to brace up and win the race.
This is the unpardonable sin--to talk dis-
couragingly to human souls, hungering for hope.
When the man without brains does it, he can
be pardoned for knowing no better.
When the man with brains does it, he should
be ashamed to look his fellow mortals in the
eyes.
It is a sin ten times deeper dyed than giving
a stone to those who ask for bread.
It is giving poison to those who plead for a
cup of cold water.
Fortunately the remarks above quoted con-
tain not one atom of truth!
The writer may speak for himself, but he has
no right to speak for others.
It is all very well for a man who is marked
with smallpox to say his face has not one
unscarred inch on the surface of it. But he say there is
not a face in the world which is free from small-
pox scars.
Life is not "a hopeless battle in which we
are doomed to defeat."
Life is a glorious privilege, and we can make
anything we choose of it, if we begin early and
are in deep earnest, and realize our own divine
powers.
Nothing can hinder us or stay us. We can
do and be whatsoever we will.
The prize of life is not "a thing which is
neither enjoyed while had nor missed when lost."
It is enjoyed by millions of souls to-day-- this
great prize of life. I for one declare that for
every day of misery in my existence I have had a
week of joy and happiness. For every hour of
pain, I have had a day of pleasure. For every
moment of worry, an hour of content.
I cannot be the only soul so endowed with the
appreciation of life! I know scores of happy
people who enjoy the many delights of earth,
and there are thousands whom I do not know.
Of course "life is not missed when lost"--
because it is never lost. It is indestructible.
Life ever was, and ever will be. It is a
continuous performance.
It is not "worthless" to the wholesome, normal
mind. It is full of interest, and rich with oppor-
tunities for usefulness.
When any man says his life is worthless, it is
because he has eyes and sees not, and ears and
hears not.
It is his own fault, not the fault of God, fate
or accident.
If every life seems at times "unsatisfactory"
and "inadequate" it is only due to the cry of the
immortal soul longing for larger opportunities
and fewer limitations.
Neither is life "false to hope." He who
trusts the divine Source of Life, shall find his
hopes more than realized here upon earth. I but
voice the knowledge of thousands of souls, when
I make this assertion. I know whereof I speak.
All that our dearest hopes desire will come to
us, if we believe in ourselves as rightful heirs to
Divine Opulence, and work and think always on
those lines.
If "no whisper has ever reached us out of the
void" confirming our faith in immortality, then
one-third of the seemingly intelligent and sane
beings of our acquaintance must be fools or liars.
For we have the assertion of fully this number
that such whispers have come, besides the
Biblical statistics of numerous messages from the
other realm. "As it was in the beginning, is now
and shall be ever more, world without end, Amen."

The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902

20th

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered to-day,
They make up the item of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth,
For we find them but once in a while

WORTH WHILE

It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth,
Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent,
When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
Is luring your soul away;
But it's only a negative virtue
Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor on earth,
Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered to-day,
They make up the sum of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth
For we find them but once in a while.

Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906

21st

Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip
Be my reminder in temptation's hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn

HIGH NOON

Time's finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

Looking forth,
Out to the western sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

22nd

June 22 Each conquered passion feeds the living flame;
Each well-borne sorrow is a step towards God;
Faith can not rescue, and no blood redeem
The soul that will not reason and resolve

IMMORTALITY

Immortal life is something to be earned,
By slow self-conquest, comradeship with Pain,
And patient seeking after higher truths.
We cannot follow our own wayward wills,
And feed our baser appetites, and give
Loose rein to foolish tempers year on year,
And then cry, "Lord, forgive me, I believe!"
And straightway bathe in glory. Men must learn
God's system is too grand a thing for that.
The spark divine dwells in our souls, and we
Can fan it to a steady flame of light,
Whose lustre gilds the pathway to the tomb,
And shines on through Eternity, or else
Neglect it till it glimmers down to Death,
And leaves us but the darkness of the grave.
Each conquered passion feeds the living flame;
Each well-borne sorrow is a step towards God;
Faith cannot rescue, and no blood redeem
The soul that will not reason and resolve.
Lean on thyself, yet prop thyself with prayer
(All hope is prayer; who calls it hope no more,
Sends prayer footsore forth over weary wastes,
While he who calls it prayer gives wings to hope),
And there are spirits, messengers of Love,
Who come at call and fortify our strength.
Make friends with them, and with thine inner self;
Cast out all envy, bitterness, and hate;
And keep the mind's fair tabernacle pure.
Shake hands with Pain, give greeting unto Grief,
Those angels in disguise, and thy glad soul
From height to height, from star to shining star,
Shall climb and claim blest immortality.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.

23rd

Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed,
And, all beyond youth's passion-hued romances,
Love is more perfect than anticipated.

REFUTED

"Anticipation is sweeter than realisation"

It may be, yet I have not found it so.
In those first golden dreams of future fame
I did not find such happiness as came
When toil was crowned with triumph. Now I know
My words have recognition, and will go
Straight to some listening heart, my early aim,
To win the idle glory of a name,
Pales like a candle in the noonday's glow.

So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed:
Life yields more rapture than did childhood's fancies,
And each year brings more pleasure than I waited.
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed,
And, all beyond youth's passion-hued romances,
Love is more perfect than anticipated.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917

24th

Oh, poor that pride the unscarred soldier shows
Who, safe in camp, has never faced his foes

CONQUEST

Talk not of strength, until your heart has known
And fought with weakness through long hours alone.

Talk not of virtue, till your conquering soul
Has met temptation and gained full control.

Boast not of garments, all unscorched by sin,
Till you have passed, unscathed, through fires within.

Oh, poor that pride the unscarred soldier shows,
Who safe in camp, has never faced his foes.

Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1911

25th

But our deeds live on, when life is done,
Nor Time nor Death destroy;
And the words we say will make their way
With sorrow or with joy.
And even the thought, that we utter not,
In heaven is like a shout,
And bad or good, it is understood,
And the angels write it out.

BEAUTY

Though thy cheek be fair, as the roses are,
Thy brow like the drifted snow,
And thine eye as bright, as the diamonds light,
Yet if in thy heart doth grow
But noxious weeds, and selfish deeds
Follow thy steps alway,
What in the end availeth it, friend,
If thy face is fair, I pray.

For the smoothest brow, old Time will plow,
And he dimmeth the brightest eye;
And the fairest face, and the form of grace,
In the lowly grave must lie.
But our deeds live on, when life is done.
Nor Time, nor death destroy;
And the words we say, will make their way
With sorrow, or with joy.

And even the thought, that we utter not,
In heaven is like a shout.
And bad or good, it is understood,
And the angels write it out.
But they do not care, if the face be fair,
Or what the world deems plain.
They look to the heart, and the deathless part,
For the rest is poor and vain.

1870

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873

26th

IMMORTALITY

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 191

27th

I know that the earth exists,
It is none of my business why;
I can not find out what it's all about,
I would but waste time to try.
My life is a brief, brief thing,
I am here for a little space,
And while I stay I would like, if I may,
To brighten and better the place

I AM

I know not whence I came,
I know not whither I go;
But the fact stands clear that I am here
In this world of pleasure and woe.
And out of the mist and murk
Another truth shines plain--
It is my power each day and hour
To add to its joy or its pain.

I know that the earth exists,
It is none of my business why;
I cannot find out what it's all about,
I would but waste time to try.
My life is a brief, brief thing,
I am here for a little space,
And while I stay I would like, if I may,
To brighten and better the place.

The trouble, I think, with us all
Is the lack of a high conceit.
If each man thought he was sent to this spot
To make it a bit more sweet,
How soon we could gladden the world,
How easily right all wrong,
If nobody shirked, and each one worked
To help his fellows along.

Cease wondering why you came--
Stop looking for faults and flaws.
Rise up to-day in your pride and say,
"I am part of the First Great Cause!
However full the world,
There is room for an earnest man.
It had need of me or I would not be--
I am here to strengthen the plan."

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902

28th

Once there was a boat, locked fast to a shore,
But rust ate the chain, day by day,
And the boat was loosened more and more,
As the fastenings slipped away.
Yet, any day, an outstretched hand
Could have caught, and locked it again to land.

AFLOAT

But never a hand was stretched to save,
And the boat at last was free;
And shot like an arrow over the wave,
And drifted out mid-sea.
And never, oh never, across the main,
Will the boat to the shore be brought again.

So was my heart, love--linked to thine;
But neglect ate the chains away:
Yet a tender word love, I opine,
Would have saved it, any day.
Ay! a tender word, said first or last,
Would have mended the chain, and held it fast.

But the word was lacking: and so my heart,
Slipped from its chains, like the boat.
And then as the last link fell apart,
It sped o'er the waves--afloat.
Nor pleading hands, nor words, you see,
Brings the boat to shore, or my heart to thee.

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873

29th

And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows,
Passion-hearted, yet tender.
And my path is strewn with the glories of June,
And I'm hedged about with its splendor.

A GOLDEN YEAR

Linger, linger, oh royal year!
For I grieve to see you dying.
Rest on the hilltops---loiter near;
Wait, O Time, in your flying.
For never, in all the twice ten years,
You have brought to build my twenty,
Never was one so free from tears--
So overflowing with plenty.

Filled to the brim with the purest draughts,
That I sip in fearless pleasure;
While an unseen spirit watches and laughs,
And again refills the measure.
My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes,
The year has gathered together,
And right bountifully they have come to me,
From the Spring to the Autumn weather.

The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet,
That grew in the world Ideal,
Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet,
And blossomed among the Real.
And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows,
Passion-hearted, yet tender.
And my path is strewn with the glories of June,
And I'm hedged about with its splendor.

Care flew over the hills, one day,
And I sang, as he swift retreated;
And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down,
On the throne where Care had been seated.
Contentment hedged me all round about,
And Love built his blazing fire;
And Happiness poured his treasures out,
And left me with no desire.

I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss:
I have loved my God, and my brother.
There never before was a year like this--
There never can be another.
Linger, loiter, a little while,
For I grieve to see you dying!
But even in grief, I can only smile,
For my heart is too light for sighing.

December, 1870

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873

30th

I love this age of energy and force.
Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour,
Emerging from the all-creative source,
Supreme with promise, imminent with power

TO-DAY

I love this age of energy and force,
Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour;
Emerging from the all-creative source,
Supreme with promise, imminent with power.
The strident whistle and the clanging bell,
The noise of gongs, the rush of motored things
Are but the prophet voices which foretell
A time when thought may use unfettered wings.

Too long the drudgery of earth has been
A barrier 'twixt man and his own mind.
Remove the stone, and lo! the Christ within;
For He is there, and who so seeks shall find.
The Great Inventor is the Modern Priest.
He paves the pathway to a higher goal.
Once from the grind of endless toil released
Man will explore the kingdom of his soul.

And all this restless rush, this strain and strife,
This noise and glare is but the fanfarade
That ushers in the more majestic life
Where faith shall walk with science, unafraid.
I feel the strong vibrations of the earth,
I sense the coming of an hour sublime,
And bless the star that watched above my birth
And let me live in this important time.

Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1911

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