Around the Year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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After the May time and after the June time,
   Rare with blossoms and odors sweet,
Cometh the round world's royal noon time,
   The red midsummer of blazing heat,
When the sun, with an eye that never closes,
   Bends on the earth its fervid gaze,
And the winds are still, and the crimson roses
   Droop and wither, and die in its gaze.

MIDSUMMER

After the May time, and after the June time,
    Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet,
Cometh the round world's royal noontime,
    The red midsummer of blazing heat,
When the sun, like an eye that never closes,
    Bends on the earth its fervid gaze,
And the winds are still, and the crimson roses
    Droop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come that season,
    O, my lady, my worshipped one,
When over the stars of Pride and Reason
    Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun.
Like a great red ball in my bosom burning
    With fires that nothing can quench or tame,
It glows till my heart itself seems turning
    Into a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender,
    The dreams and fears of an earlier day,
Under the noontide's royal splendour,
    Droop like roses and wither away.
From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing,
    From the isle of pain no breeze is sent.
Only the sun in a white heat glowing
    Over an ocean of great content.

Sink, O, my soul, in this golden glory,
Die, O, my heart, in thy rapture-swoon,
For the Autumn must come with its mournful story,
And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.

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

1st

But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing,
And thinks of all the joys a summer day may bring

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.

2nd

They said, "Too free you give your soul's rare wine;
The world will quaff, but it will not repay."
Yet into the emptied flagons day by day
True hearts pour back a nectar as divine

MY HERITAGE

I into life so full of love was sent,
That all the shadows which fall on the way
Of every human being, could not stay,
But fled before the light my spirit lent.

I saw the world through gold and crimson dyes:
Men sighed, and said, "Those rosy hues will fade
As you pass on into the glare and shade!"
Still beautiful the way seems to mine eyes.

They said, "You are too jubilant and glad;
The world is full of sorrow and of wrong.
For soon your lips shall breathe forth sighs---not song!"
The day wears on, and yet I am not sad.

They said, "You love too largely, and you must
Through wound on wound, grow bitter to your kind."
They were false prophets; day by day I find
More cause for love, and less cause for distrust.

They said, "Too free you give your soul's rare wine;
The world will quaff, but it will not repay."
Yet into the emptied flagons, day by day,
True hearts pour back a nectar as divine.

Thy heritage! Is it not love's estate?
Look to it, then, and keep its soil well tilled.
I hold that my best wishes are fulfilled
Because I love so much, and cannot hate.

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

3rd

Whether the face be young, or old,
Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold,
On every brow I trace some line
That links the strangers' heart to mine

THE COMMON LINK

When on the crowded thoroughfare,
Amidst the motley throng I stray,
In all the stranger faces there,
I meet and pass from day to day,
Whether the face be young, or old,
Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold,
On every brow I trace some line
That links the strangers' heart to mine.

Though a proud beauty rustles by,
With haughty mien, I smile and say,
"You have a heart-ache--so have I:
We both are hiding it to-day.
Though you are rich, I am poor,
We both have entered sorrow's door;
Grief comes alike to you and me,
So we are of one family."

The richest nabob that I meet,
The poorest delver that I see,
Youth and old age upon the street,
Are one and all the same to me.
No heart that beats, but has its grief;
Nor wealth, nor youth, gives full relief;
And through the tears that sometimes fall
I claim relationship to all.

So poor, and rich, and high, and low,
I meet upon this common plain.
Though far and wide our paths may lie,
We entertain the same guest--Pain.
The subtle threads of this strange cord,
Draw me to mankind, and the Lord,
And through the sorrows heaven sends,
I hold all men to be my friends.

1869

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

4th

We want no kings but kings of toil--
No crowns but crowns of deeds.
Not royal birth but sterling worth
Must mark the man who leads

A SONG OF REPUBLICS

Fair Freedom's ship, too long adrift--
Of every wind the sport--
Now rigged and manned, her course well planned
Sails proudly out of port;
And fluttering gaily from the mast
This motto is unfurled,
Let all men heed its truth who read:
"Republics Rule the World!"

The universe is high as God!
Good is the final goal;
The world revolves and man evolves
A purpose and a soul.
No church can bind, no crown forbid
Thought's mighty upward course--
Let kings give way before its sway,
For God inspires its force.

The hero of a vanished age
Was one who bathed in gore;
Who best could fight was noblest knight
In savage days of yore;
Now warrior chiefs are out of date,
The times have changed. To-day
We call men great who arbitrate
And keep war's hounds at bay.

The world no longer looks to priest
Or prince to know its needs;
Earth's human throng has grown too strong
To rule with courts and creeds.
We want no kings but kings of toil--
No crowns but crowns of deeds.
Not royal birth but sterling worth
Must mark the man who leads.

Proud monarchies are out of step
With modern thought to-day,
For Brotherhood is understood
And thrones must pass away.
Men dare to think. Concerted thought
Contains more power than swords:
The force that binds united minds
Defeats mere savage hordes.

Man needs no arbitrary hand
To keep him in control,
He feels the power grow hour by hour
Of his expanding soul;
In God's stupendous scheme of worlds,
He knows he has a place.
He is no slave to cringe, and crave
Some worthless monarch's grace.

As ocean billows undermine
The haughty shores each hour,
Time's sea has brought its waves of thought
To crumble thrones of power;
And one by one shall kingdoms fall
Like leaves before the blast,
As man with man combines to plan
Republics formed to last.

Columbia balked a tyrant king,
And built upon a rock,
In Freedom's name, a shrine whose fame
Outlived the century's shock.
Now France within our port has set
Her symbol of re-birth.
Her lifted hand tells sea and land,
Republics light the earth.

One mighty church for all the world
Would make men far more kind.
One government would bring content
To many a restless mind.
Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail
The wide sea's breadth and length.
'Till worlds unite to make the might
Of "One Republic's" strength.

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

5th

Call no chain strong which holds one rusted link,
Call no land free that holds one fettered slave.

PROTEST

To sin by silence, when we should protest,
Makes cowards out of men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance, and lust,
The inquisition yet would serve the law,
And guillotines decide our least disputes.
The few who dare, must speak and speak again
To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,
No vested power in this great day and land
Can gag or throttle. Press and voice may cry
Loud disapproval of existing ills;
May criticise oppression and condemn
The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
That let the children and childbearers toil
To purchase ease for idle millionaires.

Therefore I do protest against the boast
Of independence in this mighty land.

Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link.
Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave.
Until the manacled slim wrists of babes
Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,
Until the mother bears no burden, save
The precious one beneath her heart, until
God's soil is rescued from the clutch of greed
And given back to labor, let no man
Call this the land of freedom.

Poems of Problems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: W. B. Conkey Company 191

6th

The honey-bees hum in the clover,
The grasses rise and fall,
The robin stops and listens
As he hears the brown thrush call.
The humming-bird sings to me softly,
The butterfly flits away--
Oh, what could be sweeter than living
This beautiful summer day!

A SUMMER DAY

There's a gaping rent in the curtain
That longs for a needle and thread,
There's a garment that ought to be finished,
And a book that wants to be read.
There's a letter that needs to be answered,
There are clothes to fold away,
And I know these tasks are waiting,
And ought to be done to-day.

But how can I mend the curtain,
While watching this silvery cloud,
And how can I finish th' garment,
When the robin calls so loud.
And the whispering trees are telling
Such stories above my head,
That I can but lie and listen,
And the book is all unread.

If I try to write the letter,
I am sure one half the words
Will be in the curious language
Of my chattering friends, the birds.
The lilacs bloom in the sunshine,
The roses nod and smile,
And the clothes that ought to be folded
And ironed, must wait awhile.

I lie in the locust shadows,
And gaze at the summer sky,
Bidding the cares and toubles
And trials of life pass by.
The beautiful locust blossoms
Are falling about my feet,
And the dreamy air is laden
With their odors rare and sweet.

The honey-bees hum in the clover,
The grasses rise and fall,
The robin stops and listens,
As he hears the brown thrush call.
The humming-bird sings to me softly,
The butterfly flits away--
Oh what could be sweeter than living,
This beautiful summer day!

1869

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

7th

Should a July noon
Burst suddenly upon a frozen world,
Small joy would follow, even tho' that world
Were longing for the Summer. Should the sting
Of sharp December pierce the heart of June,
What death and devastation would ensue!
All things are planned.

PREPARATION

We must not force events, but rather make
The heart soil ready for their coming, as
The earth spreads carpets for the feet of Spring,
Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost,
Prepares for Winter. Should a July noon
Burst suddenly upon a frozen world
Small joy would follow, even tho' that world
Were longing for the Summer. Should the sting
Of sharp December pierce the heart of June,
What death and devastation would ensue!
All things are planned. The most majestic sphere
That whirls through space is governed and controlled
By supreme law, as is the blade of grass
Which through the bursting bosom of the earth
Creeps up to kiss the light. Poor puny man
Alone doth strive and battle with the Force
Which rules all lives and worlds, and he alone
Demands effect before producing cause.
How vain the hope! We cannot harvest joy
Until we sow the seed, and God alone
Knows when that seed has ripened. Oft we stand
And watch the ground with anxious brooding eyes
Complaining of the slow unfruitful yield,
Not knowing that the shadow of ourselves
Keeps off the sunlight and delays result.
Sometimes our fierce impatience of desire
Doth like a sultry May force tender shoots
Of half-formed pleasures and unshaped events
To ripen prematurely, and we reap
But disappointment; or we rot the germs
With briny tears ere they have time to grow.
While stars are born and mighty planets die
And hissing comets scorch the brow of space
The Universe keeps its eternal calm.
Through patient preparation, year on year,
The earth endures the travail of the Spring
And Winter's desolation. So our souls
In grand submission to a higher law
Should move serene through all the ills of life,
Believing them masked joys.

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

8th

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

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

9th

The longer I live and the more I see
Of the struggle of souls toward the heights above,
The stronger this truth comes home to me:
That the Universe rests on the shoulders of Love;
A love so limitless, deep and broad,
That men have renamed it and called it--God

DEATHLESS

There lies in the centre of each man's heart
A longing and love for the good and pure;
And if but an atom, or larger part,
I tell you this shall endure---endure---
After the body has gone to decay---
Yea, after the world has passed away.

The longer I live and the more I see
Of the struggle of souls toward the heights above,
The stronger this truth comes home to me:
That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love;
A love so limitless, deep, and broad,
That men have renamed it and called it---God.

And nothing that ever was born or evolved,
Nothing created by light or force,
But deep in its system there lies dissolved
A shining drop from the Great Love Source;
A shining drop that shall live for aye---
Though kingdoms may perish and stars decay.

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

10th

To sin by silence when we should protest
Makes cowards out of men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance and lust,
The Inquisition yet would serve the law,
And guillotines decide our least dispute

PROTEST

Therefore I do protest against the boast
Of independence in this mighty land.

Poems of Problems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: W. B. Conkey Company 1914

11th

Our tastes, our needs, are never twice the same.
Nothing contents us long, however dear.
The spirit in us, like the grosser frame,
Outgrows the garments which it wore last year

THE YEAR OUTGROWS THE SPRING

The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet
And clasps the summer with a new delight,
Yet wearied, leaves her languors and her heat
When cool-browed autumn dawns upon his sight.

The tree outgrows the bud's suggestive grace
And feels new pride in blossoms fully blown.
But even this to deeper joy gives place
When bending boughs 'neath blushing burdens groan.

Life's rarest moments are derived from change,
The heart outgrows old happiness, old grief,
And suns itself in feelings new and strange.
The most enduring pleasure is but brief.

Our tastes, our needs, are never twice the same.
Nothing contents us long, however dear.
The spirit in us, like the grosser frame,
Outgrows the garments which it wore last year.

Change is the watchword of Progression. When
We tire of well-worn ways, we seek for new.
This restless craving in the souls of men
Spurs them to climb, and seek the mountain view.

So let who will erect an altar shrine
To meek-browed Constancy, and sing her praise;
Unto enlivening Change I shall build mine,
Who lends new zest, and interest to my days.

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

12th

It is not through its heroes the world lives and thrives,
But through its sweet, commonplace mothers and wives

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung

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

13th

That melancholy phrase, It might have been,"
However sad, doth in its heart enfold
A hidden germ of promise! For I hold
Whatever might have been shall be

"HAS BEEN"

That melancholy phrase "It might have been,"
However sad, doth in its heart enfold
A hidden germ of promise! for I hold
Whatever might have been shall be.
Though in
Some other realm and life, the soul must win
The goal that erst was possible. But cold
And cruel as the sound of frozen mold
Dropped on a coffin, are the words "Has been."

"She has been beautiful"--"he has been great,"
"Rome has been powerful," we sigh and say.
It is the pitying crust we toss decay,
The dirge we breathe o'er some degenerate state

An epitaph for fame's unburied dead.
God pity those who live to hear it said.

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

14th

Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart's last love , for that is best

LAST LOVE

The first flower of the spring is not so fair
Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings.
The first faint note the forest warbler sings
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare
As when, full master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist's earliest effort wrought with care,
The bard's first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil seems poor and tame.
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart's last love , for that is best.

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

15th

There never was so nobly planned a féte
Or festal throng with hearts on pleasure bent
But some neglected one outside the gate
Wept tears of discontent

SUN SHADOWS

There never was success so nobly gained,
Or victory so free from selfish dross
But in the winning some one had been pained
Or some one suffered loss.

There never was so nobly planned a féte
Or festal throng with hearts on pleasure bent
But some neglected one outside the gate
Wept tears of discontent.

There never was a bridal morning fair
With hope's blue skies and love's unclouded sun
For two fond hearts, that did not bring despair
To some sad other one.

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

16th

Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be dumb,
Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come.
Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes,
For the world needs the happy far more than the wise

The springtime is here in our old home again,
Which again you have left. Oh, most worthy of men,
Why grieve for unworthiness? Why waste your life
For a woman who never was meant for a wife?
Mabel Lee has no love in her nature. Your heart
Would have starved in her keeping. She plays her new part,
As the faithful, forgiving, sweet spouse, with content.
I think she is secretly glad Roger went
Astray for a season. She stands up still higher
On her pedestal, now, for Bay Bend to admire.
She is pleased with herself. As for Roger, he trots
Like a lamb in her wake, with the blemishing spots
Of his sins washed away by the Church. Oh I seem
To myself, in these days, like one waked from a dream
To blessed reality. Off in the Bay
I saw a fair snowy sailed ship yesterday.
The masts shone like gold, and the furrowed waves laughed,
To be beat into foam by the beautiful craft.
But close in the harbor I saw the ship lying;
What seemed like the wings of a sea gull when flying,
Were weather stained sheets; there were no masts of gold,
And the craft was uncleanly, unseaworthy, old.
Well, the man whom I loved, and loved vainly, and whom
I fancied had shadowed my whole life with gloom,
Has been shown to my sight like that ship in the Bay,
And all my illusions have vanished away.
The man is by nature weak, selfish, unstable.
I think if some woman more loving than Mabel,
More tender, more tactful, less painfully good,
Had directed his home-life, perchance Roger would
Have evolved his best self, that pure atom of God,
Which lies deep in each heart like a seed in the sod.
'Tis the world's over-virtuous women, ofttimes,
Who drive men of weak will into sexual crimes
I pity him. (God knows I pity, each, all
Of the poor striving souls who grope blindly and fall
By the wayside of life.) But the love which unbidden
Crept into my heart, and was guarded and hidden
For years, that has vanished. It passed like a breath,
In the gray Autumn morning when Roger faced death,
As he thought, and uncovered his heart to my sight.
Like a corpse, resurrected and brought to the light,
Which crumbles to ashes, the love of my youth
Crumbled off into nothingness. Ah, it is truth;
Love can die! You may hold it is not the true thing,
Not the genuine passion, which dies or takes wing;
But the soil of the heart, like the soil of the earth,
May, at varying times of the seasons, give birth
To bluebells, and roses, and bright goldenrod.
Each one is a gift from the garden of God,
Though it dies when its season is over. Why cling
To the withered dead stalk of the blossoms of spring
Through a lifetime, Maurice? It is stubbornness only,
Not constancy, which makes full many lives lonely.
They want their own way, and, like cross children, fling
Back the gifts which, in place of the lost flowers of spring,
Fate offers them. Life holds in store for you yet
Better things, dear Maurice, than a dead violet,
As it holds better things than dead daisies for me.
To Roger Montrose, let us leave Mabel Lee,
With our blessing. They seem to be happy; or she
Seems content with herself and her province; while he
Has the look of one who, overfed with emotion,
Tries a diet of spiritual health-food, devotion.
He is broken in strength, and his face has the hue
Of a man to whom passion has bidden adieu.
He has time now to worship his God and his wife.
She seems better pleased with the dregs of his life
Than she was with the bead of it.
Well, let them make
What they will of their future. Maurice, for my sake
And your own, put them out of your thoughts. All too brief
And too broad is this life to be ruined by grief
Over one human atom. Like mellowing rain,
Which enriches the soil of the soul and the brain,
Should the sorrow of youth be; and not like the breath
Of the cyclone, which carries destruction and death.
Come, Maurice, let philosophy lift you above
The gloom and despair of unfortunate love.
Sometimes, if we look a woe straight in the face,
It loses its terrors and seems commonplace;
While sorrow will follow and find if we roam.
Come, help me to turn the old house into home.
We have youth, health, and competence. Why should we go
Out into God's world with long faces of woe?
Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be dumb,
Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come.
Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes,
For the world needs the happy far more than the wise.
I am one of the women whose talent and taste
Lie in home-making. All else I do seems mere waste
Of time and intention; but no woman can
Make a house seem a home without aid of a man.
He is sinew and bone, she is spirit and life.
Until the veiled future shall bring you a wife,
Me a mate (and both wait for us somewhere, dear brother),
Let us bury old corpses and live for each other.
You will write, and your great heart athrob through your pen
Shall strengthen earth's weak ones with courage again.
Where your epigrams fail, I will offer a pill,
And doctor their bodies with "new woman" skill.
(Once a wife, I will drop from my name the M. D.
I hold it the truth that no woman can be
An excellent wife and an excellent mother,
And leave enough purpose and time for another
Profession outside. And our sex was not made
To jostle with men in the great marts of trade.
The wage-earning women, who talk of their sphere,
Have thrown the domestic machine out of gear.
They point to their fast swelling ranks overjoyed,
Forgetting the army of men unemployed.
The banner of Feminine "Rights," when unfurled,
Means a flag of distress to the rest of the world.
And poor Cupid, depressed by such follies and crimes,
Sits weeping, alone, in the Land of Hard Times.
The world needs wise mothers, the world needs good wives,
The world needs good homes, and yet woman strives
To be everything else but domestic. God's plan
Was for woman to rule the whole world, through a man.
There is nothing a woman of sweetness and tact
Can not do without personal effort or act.
She needs but infuse lover, husband or son
With her own subtle spirit, and lo! it is done.
Though the man is unconscious, full oft, of the cause,
And fancies himself the sole maker of laws.
Well, let him. The cannon, no doubt, is the prouder
For not knowing its noise is produced by the powder.
Yet this is the law: Who can love, can command .)
But I wander too far from the subject in hand,
Which is, your home coming. Make haste, dear; I find
More need every day of your counseling mind.
I work well in harness, but poorly alone.
Until that bright day when Fate brings us our own,
Let us labor together. I see many ways,
Many tasks, for the use of our talents and days.
Your wisdom shall better the workingmen's lives,
While I will look after their daughters and wives,
And teach them to cook without waste; for, indeed,
It is knowledge like this which the poor people need,
Not the stuff taught in schools. You shall help them to think,
While I show them what they can eat and can drink
With least cost, and most pleasure and benefit. Please
Write me and say you will come, dear Maurice.
Home, sister, and duty are all waiting here;
Who keeps close to duty finds pleasure dwells near

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

17th

This were my wish! From my life's dim beginning,
Let be what has been! Wisdom planned the whole;
My want, my woe, my errors and my sinning,
All, all were needed lessons for my soul

THE WISH

Should some great angel say to me to-morrow,
"Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start,
But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow,
Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart."

This were my wish! from my life's dim beginning
Let be what has been! wisdom planned the whole;
My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning,
All, all were needed lessons for my soul.

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

18th

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

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

19th

Growth, growth out of self, back to him--the First Cause;
Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws.
Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these
To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas?
Does the star long to shine when he tells it to set,
As the heart would remember when told to forget?
Does the sea moan for flood-tide when bid to be low,
As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe?

Maurice's Letter to Ruth:

No, no. I have gambled with destiny twice,
And have staked my whole hopes on a home; but the dice
Thrown by Fate made me loser. Henceforward, I know
My lot must be homeless. The gods will it so.

I fought, I rebelled; I was bitter. I strove
To outwit the great Cosmic Forces, above,
Or beyond, or about us, who guide and control
The course of all things from the moat to the soul.

The river may envy the peace of the pond,
But law drives it out to the ocean beyond.
If it roars down abysses, or laughs through the land,
It follows the way which the Forces have planned.

So man is directed. His only the choice
To help or to hinder--to weep or rejoice.
But vain is refusal--and vain discontent,
For at last he must walk in the way that was meant.

My way leads through shadow, alone to the end
I must work out my karma, and follow its trend.
I must fulfill the purpose, whatever it be,
And look not for peace till I merge in God's sea.

Though bankrupt in joy, still my life has its gain;
I have climbed the last round in the ladder of pain.
There is nothing to dread. I have drained sorrow's cup
And can laugh as I fling it at Fate bottom up.

I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the whole.
The best part of love is in loving. My soul
Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give
And to ask no return, is my lot while I live.

Such love may be blindness, but where are love's eyes?
Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise.
Such love may be madness, was love ever sane?
Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain.

Love goes where it must go, and in its own season.
Love cannot be banished by will or by reason.
Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave.
I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave.

So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust,
To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust,
Because the swift foot of a messenger trod
Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the sod?

What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme?
Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream,
God's messengers speed all unseen on their way,
And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day

No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind,
Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be kind.
Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise,
Swing the tides of the sea--set a star in the skies?

Can man fling a million of worlds into space,
To whirl on their orbits with system and grace?
Can he color a sunset, or create a seed,
Or fashion one leaf of the commonest weed?

Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall?
Then how dare he question the Force which does all?
Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand,
All, all must be right, could our souls understand.

Ah, man, the poor egotist! Think with what pride
He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide.
But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies,
The Maker of stars and of seas he denies!

I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past;
I have learned the true secret of living at last.
It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know
That the one thing God wishes of man--is to grow.

Growth, growth out of self, back to him--the First Cause:
Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws.
Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these
To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas?

Does the star long to shine, when He tells it to set,
As the heart would remember when told to forget?
Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be low,
As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe?

In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows,
While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows.
With patient persistence they steadily climb,
And the flame will be quenched in the passage of time.

My heart is the crater, my will is the snow,
Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow.
When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain,
And that is the goal which I seek to attain.

I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent;
In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content.
Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth,
When God, the first laborer, fashioned the earth.

The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf,
But souls who have sought to eliminate self.
Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the blind?
We must better ourselves ere we better our kind.

There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them all,
Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall.
Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed
Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need.

For vain is the effort to give man content
By clothing his body, by paying his rent.
The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs;
Who seeks to serve God by such charity errs.

Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind,
And the body soon cares for itself, you will find.
First, faith in God's wisdom, then purpose and will,
And, like mist before sunlight, shall vanish each ill.

To the far realm of Wisdom there lies a short way.
To find it we need but the password--Obey.
Obey like the acorn that falls to the sod,
To rise, through the heart of the oak tree, to God.

Though slow be the rising, and distant the goal,
Serenity waits at the end for each soul.
I seek it. Not backward, but onward I go,
And since sorrow means growth, I will welcome my woe.

In the ladder of lives we are given to climb,
Each life counts for only a second of time.
The one thing to do in the brief little space,
Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race.

No soul should be sad whom the Maker deemed worth
The great gift of song as its dower at birth.
While I pass on my way, an invisible throng
Breathes low in my ear the new note of a song.

So I am not alone; for by night and by day
These mystical messengers people my way.
They bid me to hearken, they bid me be dumb
And to wait for the true inspiration to come.

THE END.

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

20th

Better and greater than talent, is worth,
And where is the glory of brush or of pen
Like the glory of mothers and molders of men--
The home-keeping women of earth?

Bright like the comforting blaze on the hearth,
Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree,
Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to be
Are the home-keeping maidens of earth.

Better and greater than talent is worth,
And where is the glory of brush or of pen
Like the glory of mothers and molders of men--
The home-keeping women of earth?

Crowned since the great solar system had birth,
They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere.
They are queens who can look in God's face without fear--
The home-keeping women of earth.

X. A man whose mere name was submerged in the sea
Of letters which followed it, B. A., M. D.,
And Minerva knows what else, held forth at Bellevue
On what he believed some discovery new
In medical Science (though, mayhap, a truth
That was old in Confucius' earliest youth),
And a bevy of bright women students sat near,
Absorbing his wisdom with eye and with ear.

Close by, lay the corpse of a man, half in view.
Dear shades of our dead and gone grandmamas! you
Whose modesty hung out red flags on each cheek,
Danger signals--if some luckless boor chanced to speak
The words "leg" or "liver" before you, I think
Your gray ashes, even, would deepen to pink
Should your ghost happen into a clinic or college
Where your granddaughters congregate seeking for knowledge.

Forced to listen to what they are eager to hear,
No doubt you would fancy the world out of gear,
And deem modesty dead, with last century belles.

Honored ghosts, you would err! for true modesty dwells
In the same breast with knowledge, and takes no offense.
Truth never harmed anything yet but pretense.

There are fashions in modesty; what in your time
Had been deemed little less than an absolute crime
In matters of dress, or behavior, to-day
Is the custom. And however daring you may
Deem our manners and modes, yet, were facts fully known,
Our morals compare very well with your own.

The women composing the class at Bellevue
Were young--under thirty; some pleasing to view,
Some plain. Roman features prevailed, with brown hair,
But one was so feminine, soft eyed and fair
That she seemed out of place in a clinic, as though
A rose in a vegetable garden should grow.
While her face was intelligent, none would avow
That cold intellect dwelt on that fair oval brow,
Or looked out of the depths of those golden gray eyes,
The color of smoke against clear, sunny skies.
'Twas a warm woman face, made for fireside nooks,
Not a face to be bent over medical books.
There was nothing aggressive in features or form;
She was meant for still harbors, and not for the storm
And the strife of rude waters. The swell of her breast
Suggested love's sweet downy cushion of rest
For the cheeks of fair children. Her plump little hands,
Seemed fashioned for sewing small gussets and bands
And fussing with laces and ribbons, instead
Of cutting cold flesh and dissecting the dead.
And yet, as a student she ranked with the first.
But conscience, in labor once chosen, not thirst
For such knowledge, had spurred her to action. This day
She seemed inattentive, her air was distrait,
As if thought had slipped free of the bridle and rein
And galloped away over memory's plain.

It was true; it was strange, too, but there in the class,
While the learned man was talking, her mind seemed to pass
Out, away from the clinic, away from the town,
To a New England midsummer garden close down
By the salt water's edge; and she felt the wind blowing
Among her loose locks as she leaned o'er her sewing,
While the voice of a man stirred her heart into song.
She was called from her dream by the clang of the gong
Which foretells an arrival at Bellevue. The class
Was dismissed for the day. In the hall, forced to pass
By the stretcher (low brougham of misery), she
Whom we know was Ruth Somerville, looked down to see
The white, haggard face of the man whom her mind
Had strayed off in a waking day vision to find
But a moment before.
The wild, passionate cry
Which arose in her heart, was held back, nor passed by
The white sentinels set on her lip. The serene,
Lofty look which deep feeling controlled gives the mien
Marked her air as she turned to the surgeon and said:
"This man lying here, either dying or dead,
Was a classmate, at Yale, of my brother's; my friend
Is his wife. Let me stay by his side to the end,
If the end has not come."
It was Roger Montrose,
Grown old with his sins and grown gaunt with his woes,
Lying low in his manhood before her.
His eyes
Opened slowly; a wondering look of surprise
Met the soft orbs above him. "Ruth--Ruth Somerville,"
He said feebly. "Tell Mabel"--then sighed, and was still.

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

21st

I know there are no errors
In the great eternal plan,
And all things work together
For the final good of man.
And I know when my soul speed onward
In its grand Eternal quest,
We shall say as we look backward:
"Whatever is, is best."

WHATEVER IS---IS BEST

I know as my life grows older
And mine eyes have clearer sight--
That under each rank wrong, somewhere
There lies the root of Right;
That each sorrow has its purpose,
By the sorrowing oft unguessed,
But as sure as the sun brings morning,
Whatever is--is best.

I know that each sinful action
As sure as the night brings shade,
Is somewhere, some time punished,
Tho' the hour be long delayed.
I know that the soul is aided
Sometimes by the heart's unrest,
And to grow means often to suffer--
But whatever is--is best.

I know there are no errors
In the great Eternal plan,
And all things work together
For the final good of man.
And I know when my soul speeds onward
In its grand Eternal quest,
I shall say as I look back earthward
Whatever is--is best.

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

22nd

We turn our sad, reluctant gaze
Upon the path of duty;
Its barren, uninviting ways
Are void of bloom and beauty.
Yet in that road, though dark and cold,
It seems as we begin it,
As we press on--lo! We behold
There's heaven in it

DUTY'S PATH

Out from the harbor of youth's bay
There leads the path of pleasure;
With eager steps we walk that way
To brim joy's largest measure.
But when with morn's departing beam
Goes youth's last precious minute,
We sigh "'twas but a fevered dream--
There's nothing in it."

Then on our vision dawns afar
The goal of glory, gleaming
Like some great radiant solar star
And sets us longing, dreaming.
Forgetting all things left behind,
We strain each nerve to win it,
But when 'tis ours--alas! we find
There's nothing in it.

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

23rd

I cannot conceive of any angry God. He seems to
me infinite patience, pity and love for all created
things

My Creed.

I am asked by a correspondent to give my "relig-
ious denomination," my "political party," and
my "school of ethics."
My creed is, Do as you would be done by every
hour of every day of every week of every year.
This includes our relations with home, society, and
the masses of people encountered in the daily walks
of life.
The simplicity of this creed renders it extremely
difficult to follow. One which requires devotion to
churches and forms of worship once or twice a week
is much easier.
To my idea, God is the essence and manifestation
of love. I fear wrong thinking and wrong doing
because it hinders my growth toward the divine
standard, and not because I think God will be angry or
revengeful if I err. I cannot conceive of any angry
God. He seems to me infinite patience, pity, and
love for all created things.
I believe the spirit of man has always existed and
always will exist; that it passed through innumer-
able forms and phases of life, and that which it
leaves undone in one incarnation must be accom-
plished in another.
I believe in the laws of cause and effect, and that
each soul must work out its own destiny; that guar-
dian angels of unseen beings in a more advanced
state of existence endeavor to aid and help us
through this world. They are messengers of the
Master.
I believe in the power of prayer and assertion, and
in the strength of spirit to dominate matter and
circumstance.
My religion teaches me that it is demanded of us
to be of constant assistance to one another in small
ways, but that it is wrong to assume another's
entire burden or to attempt to take all difficulties
from his path. That interferes with his develop-
ment. It is for us to cheer, stimulate, and encourage,
but not to do the work given to another to perform.
I believe that every act of yours and mine affects
all of humanity. There is no such thing as a sepa-
rate life. We are all one. If you send out thoughts
of despondency, hatred and envy, if you plan
revenge or suicide, you are interfering with the
harmony of the universe, besides inviting certain
misfortunes to yourself. If you think love, hope, and
helpfulness, you are aiding the cause of universal
happiness and success.
Thoughts are things, full of electric force, and
they go forth and produce their own kind.
I believe that God is infinite wisdom, and that
evil is only blind ignorance.
So occupied have I been all my life trying to live
up to my creed, that I have never found time to
decide upon a political party or school of ethics.
I do not understand politics, and, like many other
ignorant people, I, in this instance, have small
respect for the thing I fail to understand.
But I believe in co-operative methods of business
and in the public ownership of large industries.
I have not the kind of brain which formulates the
plans for such results, but I have the foresight which
sees their certain approach. THE CREED Whoever was begotten by pure love
And came desired and welcomed into life,
Is of immaculate conception. He
Whose heart is full of tenderness and truth,
Who loves mankind more than he loves himself,
And cannot find room in his heart for hate,
May be another Christ. We all may be
The Saviors of the world if we believe
In the divinity which dwells in us
And worship it, and nail our grosser selves,
Our tempers, greeds, and unworthy aims
Upon the cross. Who giveth love to all,
Pays kindness for unkindness, smiles for frowns,
And lends new courage to each fainting heart
And strengthens hope and scatters joy abroad.

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

24th

Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere,
But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tear
Came to soften the hard, stony look in the eye
Of her husband; she heard no complaint and no sigh
From his lips, but he turned with impatience whenever
She spoke of religion, or made one endeavor
To lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sod
Where the little form slept, to its spirit with God.

Long hours by that grave, Roger passed, and alone.
The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own,
But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in grief
Prayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief.

She flung herself into good works more and more,
And saw not that the look which her husband's face wore
Was the look of a man starved for love. In the mold
Of a nun she was fashioned, chaste, passionless, cold.
(Such women sin more when they take marriage ties
Than the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies
In the arms of the man whom she worships. The child
Not conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled.
Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows,
God sees "illegitimate" stamped on the brows
Of her offspring. Love only can legalize birth
In His eyes--all the rest is but spawn of the earth.)

Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and pleased
By the passion of Roger; his wild wooing teased
That inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit,
Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit.
His love fanned her love for herself to a glow;
She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man so.
That was all. She had nothing to give in return.
One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn;
And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her soul
Was not there to be wakened. He stood at his goal
As the Arctic explorer may finally stand,
To see all about him an ice prisoned land,
White, beautiful, useless.
Some women are chaste,
Like the snows which envelop the bleak and waste
Of the desert; once melted, alas! what remains
But the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains?
The flora of Cupid will never be found,
However he toil there, to thrive in such ground.

Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteem
By her neighbors; I think neighbors everywhere deem
Such women to be all that's noble. They sighed
When they spoke of her husband; they told how she tried
To convert him, and how they had thought for a season
His mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no reason,
He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealous
Of Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealous
In duty to others.
The death of his child
Only hardened his heart against God. He grew wild,
Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city,
Neglecting his saint of a wife--such a pity.
It was true. Our friends keep a sharp eye on our deeds
But the fine interlining of causes--who heeds?
The long list of heartaches which lead to rash acts
Would bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts.

There are women so terribly free from all evil,
They discourage a man, and he goes to the devil.
There are people whose virtues result in appalling,
And they prove a great aid to his majesty's calling.

Roger's wife rendered goodness so dreary and cold,
His tendril-like will lost its poor little hold
On the new better life he was longing to reach,
And slipped back to the dust. Oh! to love, not to preach.

Is a woman's true method of helping mankind.
The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind.
As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod,
So the patience of love brings a soul to its God.
But when love is lacking, the devil is sure
To stand in the pathway with some sort of lure.
Roger turned to the world for distraction. The world
Smiled a welcome, and then like an octopus curled
All its tentacles 'round him, and dragged him away
Into deep, troubled waters.

One late summer day
He awoke with a headache, which will not surprise,
When you know that his bedtime had been at sunrise,
And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned "Pier,"
Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window the clear
Yellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bed
And proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his head
Seemed as large and as light as an air filled balloon
While his limbs were like lead.
In the glare of the noon,
The follies of night show their makeup, and seem
Like hideous monsters evoked by some dream.

The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast
And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give rest
To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine
On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine.
Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth
Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth."

The beach swarmed with bathers--to be more exact,
Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact,
Many beautiful women bathed but in the light
Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight,
Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching arms
They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charms
And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour,
The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flower
With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath,
Roger paused in confusion, because in his path
Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent
On the form of a woman who leisurely went
From her bathing house down to the beach. "There she goes,"
Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes
With her whole ample weight. "What, the one with red hair?
Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare."
A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned,
Look! there is La Travers, the one with the red
Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here,
And at present the topic of talk at the Pier."
Roger followed their glances in time to behold
For a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold,
And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white.
Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight

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

25th

DEATHLESS

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

26th

Love makes all wisdom seem but poorest folly,
And yet the simplest mind with love grows wise.
The gayest heart he teaches melancholy,
Yet lights with joy the erstwhile brooding eyes

LOVE'S WAYS

Love gives us curious potions of delight,
Of pain and ecstacy, and peace and care,
Love leads us upward, to the mountain height
And, like an angel, stands beside us there.
Then thrusts us, demon-like, in some abyss
Where, in the darkness of despair, we grope
Till, suddenly, love greets us with a kiss
And guides us back to flowery fields of hope.

Love makes all wisdom seem but poorest folly,
And yet the simplest mind, with love grows wise.
The gayest heart, he teaches melancholy;
Yet glorifies the erstwhile brooding eyes.
Love lives on change, and yet at change love mocks,
For love's whole life, is one great paradox.

Poems of progress and new thought pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey Company [1909]

27th

Love makes all wisdom seem but poorest folly,
And yet the simplest mind with love grows wise.
The gayest heart he teaches melancholy,
Yet lights with joy the erstwhile brooding eyes

MY LAUNCH AND I

What glorious times we have together,
My launch and I, in the summer weather!
My trim little launch with its sturdy sides
And its strong heart beating away as it glides
Out of the harbor and out of the bay,
Wherever our fancy may lead away,
Rollicking over the salt sea track
Hurrying seaward and hurrying back.

My boat has never a braggart sail,
To boast in the breeze, in the calm to quail,
No tyrant boom deals a sudden blow,
Saying, "You are my lackey, bend low, bend low!"
No mast struts over a windless sea
To show how powerless pride may be.
But sure and steady and true and staunch
It bounds o'er the billows,--my little launch.

Ready and willing and quick to feel
The slightest touch of my hand on the wheel
It laughs in the teeth of a driving gale,
Or skims by the cat-boat's drooping sail.
Its head held high when the Sound is still,
Then dipping its prow like a water bird's bill
Down under the waves of a rolling sea--
Oh, my gay little launch is the boat for me!

Ofttimes when the great Sound seethes and swirls
I carry a cargo of laughing girls.
Bare-armed, bare-limbed, and with hanging hair
They are bold as mermaids and twice as fair.
They swarm from the cabin,--they perch on the prow.
When the tenth wave batters them, breast and brow,
They bloom the brighter, as sea flowers do
While their shrill, sweet merriment bursts anew.

And oft when the sunset dyes the bay
O'er a mirror-like surface, we glide away,
My launch and I, to follow the breeze
That has jilted the shore for the deeper seas.
When the full moon flirts with the perigee tide
On a track of silver, away we ride--
Oh, glorious times we have together,
My boat and I, in the summer weather.

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

28th

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.

29th

And millionaires seem paupers, if from them
Life has withheld its luminous great gem.
Or if his badge be scepter, hoe or hod,
That man is king who knows that Love is God

LOVE IS ALL!

Let Labor boldly walk abroad
And take its place with kings,
For who has labored more than God,
The maker of all things?

The time has come, aye, even now it is,
To rank that parable in Genesis
Of God's great curse of labor placed on man,
With other fairy tales. Why, He began
All work Himself! He was so full of force
He flung the solar systems on their course
And builded worlds on worlds; and, not content,
He labors still: when mighty suns are spent,
He forges on His white-hot anvil--space--
New stars to tell His glory and His grace.

Who most achieves is most like God, I hold;
The idler is the black sheep in the fold.

Not for the hardened toiler with the hoe
My tears of sorrow and compassion flow.
Though he be dull, unlettered and not fair
To look upon; tho' he is bowed with care,
Yet in his heart if dear love fold its wings,
He stands a monarch over unloved kings.

One sorrow only in God's world has birth--
To live unloving and unloved on earth;
One joy alone makes life a part of heaven--
The joy of happy love, received and given.

Down through the chaos of our human laws
Love shines supreme, the great Eternal Cause.
God loved so much His thoughts burst into flame,
And from that sacred source Creation came.
The heart which feels this holy light within
Finds God and man and beast and bird its kin.
All class distinctions fade and disappear.
Death is new life, and heaven he sees a-near.
Brother is he to "ox" and "seraphim,"
"Slave to the wheel," mayhap, yet kings to him,
And millionaires, seem paupers, if from them
Life has withheld its luminous great gem.
Or if his badge be sceptre, hoe or hod,
That man is king who knows that love is God.

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

30th

Morning Prayer

Let me to-day do something that shall take
A little sadness from the world's vast store,
And may I be so favored as to make
Of joy's too scanty sum a little more.
Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed
Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend;
Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need,
Or sin by silence when I should defend.
However meager be my worldly wealth
Let me give something that shall aid my kind,
A word of courage, or a thought of health,
Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find.
Let me to-night look back across the span
'Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say--
Because of some good act to beast or man--
"The world is better that I lived to-day."

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

31st

Through its laughing and its weeping, through its losing and its keeping,
Through its follies and its labors, weaving in and out of sight,
To the end from the beginning, through all virtue and all sinning,
Reeled from God's great spool of Progress, runs the golden thread of Right.

PROGRESS

In its giving and its getting, in its smiling and its fretting,
In its peaceful years of toiling and its awful days of war,
Ever on the world is moving and all human life is proving
It is reaching toward the purpose that the great God meant it for.

Through its laughing and its weeping, through its losing and its keeping,
Through its follies and its labors, weaving in and out of sight
To the end from the beginning, through all virtue and all sinning
Reeled from God's great spool of Progress, runs the golden thread of Right.

All the darkness and the errors, all the sorrows and the terrors
Time has painted in the background on the canvas of the World,
All the beauty of life's story he will do in tones of glory
When these final blots of shadows from his brushes have been hurled.

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

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