Around the Year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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In Nature bright blossoms, not always reposes
That strange subtle essence, more rare than their bloom,
Which lies in the hearts of Carnations and Roses--
That unexplained something, by men called perfume.
Though modest the flower, yet great is its power,
And pregnant with meaning each pistil and leaf,
If only it hides there, if only abides there,
The fragrance suggestive of love, joy, and grief.
MEMORY'S RIVER
In nature's bright blossoms not always reposes
That strange subtle essence more rare than their bloom,
Which lies in the hearts of Carnations and roses,
That unexplained something by men called perfume.
Though modest the flower, yet great is its power
And pregnant with meaning each pistil and leaf,
If only it hides there, if only abides there,
The fragrance suggestive of love, joy, and grief.
Not always the air that a master composes
Can stir human heart-strings with pleasure or pain.
But strange, subtle chords, like the scent of the roses,
Breathe out of some measures, though simple the strain.
And lo! when you hear them, you love them and fear them,
You tremble with anguish, you thrill with delight.
For back of them slumber old dreams without number,
And faces long vanished peer out into sight.
Those dear foolish days when the earth seemed all beauty,
Before you had knowledge enough to be sad,
When youth held no higher ideal of duty
Than just to lilt on through the world and be glad.
On harmony's river, they seemed to float hither
With all the sweet fancies that hung round that time,
Life's burdens and troubles turn into air-bubbles
And break on the music's swift current of rhyme.
Fair Folly comes back with her spell while you listen,
And points to the paths where she led you of old.
You gaze on past sunsets, you see dead stars glisten,
You bathe in life's glory, you swoon in death's cold.
All pains and all pleasures surge up through those measures,
Your heart is wrenched open with earthquakes of sound.
From ashes and embers rise Junes and Decembers,
Lost Islands in fathoms of feeling refound.
Some airs are like outlets of memory's oceans,
They rise in the past and flow into the heart.
And down them float ship-wrecks of mighty emotions,
All sea-soaked and storm-tossed and drifting apart.
Their fair timbers battered, their lordly sails tattered,
Their skeleton crew of dead days on their decks--
Then a crash of chords blending, a crisis, an ending,
The music is over, and vanished the wrecks.
Poems of Sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL: W. B. Conkey Company, 1906.
1st
Oh beautiful, languid Summer!
You are so fleet, so fleet.
Oh, youth and joy and gladness,
You are so sweet--so sweet!
My life is a wonderful poem,
Complete in measure and rhyme,
And the sweetest of all the stanzas
Is written this summer time
A SUMMER IDYL
I hear the sound of the reapers,
All in the golden grain,
And voices of strong young binders,
Singing a sweet refrain.
The winds are asleep on the hilltops,
And the sun smiles down in the vale,
Till the rose faints under his glances,
And her cheek grows wan and pale.
The meadows are green as the ocean;
And the winds, when they wake from rest,
Ripple and billow the grasses,
Like waves on the ocean's breast.
The vine grows over my window,
Where the humming bird comes each day,
And the robin and thrush in the willow,
Are singing their lives away.
Oh beautiful, languid Summer!
You are so fleet, so fleet.
Oh youth, and joy, and gladness,
You are so sweet--so sweet!
My life is a wonderful poem,
Complete in measure and rhyme,
And the sweetest of all the stanzas
Is written this summer time.
But the golden harvest is going--
The summer will fade and pass.
The thrush and the robin will vanish,
And the snow fall over the grass.
The vine at my window will perish,
And the beautiful poem of life
Will change to a measure of sorrow,
And be marred and broken by strife.
Then revel in youth, and summer;
Oh heart, be glad and gay,
For sorrow, and blight, and winter,
Are coming to us one day.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873.
2nd
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
And the sharp corners of my discontent
Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires
A SCULPTOR
As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
Before my half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining tools of mental gifts.
I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side
Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.
And no trace
Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
And the sharp corners of my discontent
Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires.
Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
3rd
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
On outgoing billows it drifts from your sight,
But back on the incoming waves it may ride
And land at your threshold again before night.
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide
THE TIDES
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
On outgoing billows it drifts from your sight,
But back on the incoming waves it may ride
And land at your threshold again before night.
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
Be careful what follies you toss in life's sea.
On bright dancing billows they drift far away,
But back on the Nemesis tides they may be
Thrown down at your threshold unwelcome day.
Be careful what follies you toss in youth's sea.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
4th
Life has strung through the pearls of happy years
A thought which borders all my joy with tears.
Some day, some day, or you or I, alone,
Must look upon the scenes we two have known,
Must tread the self-same paths we two have trod,
And cry in vain to one, who is with God,
To lean down from the Silent Realms and say:
"I love you," in the old familiar way.
THAT DAY
O Heart of mine, through all those perfect days,
Whether of white Decembers or green Mays,
There runs a dark thought like a creeping snake,
Or like a black thread which by some mistake
Life has strung through the pearls of happy years,
A thought which borders all my joy with tears.
Some day, some day, or you or I, alone,
Must look upon the scenes we two have known,
Must tread the selfsame paths we two have trod,
And cry in vain to one who is with God,
To lean down from the Silent Realms and say:
"I love you" in the old familiar way.
Some day -- and each day, beauteous though it be,
Brings closer that dread hour for you or me.
Fleet-footed joy, who hurries time along,
Is yet a secret foe who does us wrong;
Speeding us gayly, though he well doth know
Of yonder pathway where but one may go.
Ay, one will go. To go is sweet, I wis --
Yet God must needs invent some special bliss
To make his Paradise seem very dear
To one who goes and leaves the other here.
To sever souls so bound by love and time,
For any one but God, would be a crime.
Yet death will entertain his own, I think.
To one who stays life gives the gall to drink;
To one who stays, or be it you, or me,
There waits the Garden of Gethsemane.
Oh, dark, inevitable, and awful day,
When one of us must go and one must stay!
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
5th
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
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
6th
Real sorrow the sorrow which comes from the death
of dear ones, or some great cross well borne, you need
not forget . But think of these things as sent to enrich
your nature, and to make you more human and sym-
pathetic
Let the Past Go
. 
o not begin the new year by recount-
ing to yourself or others all your
losses and sorrows.
Let the past go.
Should some good friend pre-
sent you with material for a lovely
garment, would you insult her by throwing it
aside and describing the beautiful garments you
had worn out in past times?
The new year has given you the fabric for
a fresh start in life,why dwell upon the events
which have gone, the joys, blessings and ad-
vantages of the past!
Do not tell me it is too late to be successful
or happy. Do not tell me you are sick or broken
in spirit, the spirit cannot be sick or broken,
because it is of God.
It is your mind which makes your body sick.
Let the spirit assert itself and demand health
and hope and happiness in this new year.
Forget the money you have lost, the mis-
takes you have made, the injuries you have
received, the disappointments you have
experienced.
Real sorrow the sorrow which comes from
the death of dear ones, or some great cross well
borne, you need not forget. But think of these
things as sent to enrich your nature, and to
make you more human and sympathetic. You
are missing them if you permit yourself instead
to grow melancholy and irritable.
It is weak and unreasonable to imagine
destiny has selected you for special suffering.
Sorrow is no respector of persons. Say to
yourself with the beginning of this year that
you are going to consider all your troubles as an
education for your mind and soul; and that out
of the experiences which you have passed
through you are going to build a noble and
splendid character, and a successful career.
Do not tell me you are too old.
Age is all imagination. Ignore years and
they will ignore you.
Eat moderately, and bathe freely in water as
cold as nature's rainfall. Exercise thoroughly
and regularly.
Be alive, from crown to toe. Breathe deeply,
filling every cell of the lungs for at least five
minutes, morning and night, and when you
draw in long, full breaths, believe you are in-
haling helth, wisdom and success.
Anticipate good health. If it does not come
at once, consider it a mere temporary delay,
and continue to expect it.
Regard any physical ailment as a passing in-
convenience, no more.
Never for an instant believe you are per-
manently ill or disabled.
The young men of France are studying
alchemy, hoping to learn the secret which
shall give you whatever you desire.
Think of your body as the silver jewel box,
your mind as the silk lining, your spirit as the
gem. Keep the box burnished and clear of dust,
but remember always that the jewel within is
the precious part of it.
Think of yourself as on the threshold of un-
parralleled success. A whole, clear, glorious year
lies before you! In a year you can regain
health, fortune, restfulness, happiness!
Push on! Achieve, achieve!
The Heart of the New Thought. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902
7th
Keep out of the Past. It is lonely,
And barren and bleak to the view;
Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old---
Turn, turn to the Present---the New
KEEP OUT OF THE PAST
Keep out of the Past! for its highways
Are damp with malarial gloom;
Its gardens are sere and its forests are drear,
And everywhere moulders a tomb.
Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures
Finds only a rose turned to dust;
And its storehouse of wonderful treasures
Are covered and coated with rust.
Keep out of the Past. It is haunted:
He who in its avenues gropes
Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most,
And a skeleton throng of dead hopes.
In place of its beautiful rivers,
Are pools that are stagnant with slime;
And these graves gleaming white in a phosphoric light,
Hide dreams that were slain in their prime.
Keep out of the Past. It is lonely,
And barren and bleak to the view;
Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old---
Turn, turn to the Present---the New;
To-day leads you up to the hill-tops
That are kissed by the radiant sun,
To-day shows no tomb, life's hopes are in bloom,
And to-day holds a prize to be won.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
8th
The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender,
The dreams and fears of an earlier day,
Under the noontide's royal splendor
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
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
9th
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
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.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873
10th
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
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.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873
11th
. . Tune your ear
To all the wordless music of the stars
And to the voice of Nature, and your heart
Shall turn to truth and goodness, as the plant
Turns to the sun.
Progress
Let there be many windows to your soul,
That all the glory of the universe
May beautify it. Not the narrow pane
Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays
That shine from countless sources. Tear away
The blinds of superstition; let the light
Pour through fair windows broad as truth itself
And high as God.
Why should the spirit peer
Through some priest-curtained orifice, and grope
Along dim corridors of doubt, when all
The splendor from unfathomed seas of space
Might bathe it with the golden waves of Love?
Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths;
Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,
And throw your soul wide open to the light
Of Reason and of Knowledge. Tune your ear
To all the wordless music of the stars
And to the voice of Nature, and your heart
Shall turn to truth and goodness as the plant
Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands
Reach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights,
And all the forces of the firmament
Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid
To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.
12th
Life is too short for aught but high endeavor--
Too short for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on for ever and for ever,
It links the worlds that circle on above
LIFE IS TOO SHORT
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys, and sorrows, of each yesterday.
Between the swift sun's rising and its setting,
We have no time for useless tears or fretting,
Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;
Time is the best avenger if we wait,
The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing,
We have no room for anything like hate.
This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing
That thick and fast about our feet are stealing,
Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavour,---
Too short for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on for ever and for ever,
It links the worlds that circle on above;
'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever,
In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never
"Life is too short."
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wh
13th
So close it lies, that when my sight is clear,
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough, sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veilèd eyes,
We should find heaven, right round about us lies
BEYOND
It seemeth such a little way to me
Across to that strange country---the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those of whom I am so fond;
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies, that when my sight is clear
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veilèd eyes,
We should find heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,
When from this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dearer country of the dead,
And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet shall I love to go
And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and see
The seal of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think, "One more to welcome me,
When I shall cross the intervening space
Between this land and that one 'over there';
One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."
And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing---with a bated breath,
And white, set face---a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.
14th
Show me the way that leads to the true life.
I do not care what tempests may assail me,
I shall be given courage for the strife.
I know my strength will not desert or fail me;
I know that I shall conquer in the fray.
Show me the way.
Show Me the Way.
15th
In thinking over a joy we've known
We easily make it double,
Which is better by far than to mope and moan,
Over sorrow, and grief, and trouble.
For though this world is sad we know,
(And who that is living can doubt it),
It will not lessen the want or woe,
To be always singing about it
THIS WORLD
This world is a sad, sad place I know;
And what soul living can doubt it.
But it will not lessen the want and woe,
To be always singing about it.
Then away with the songs that are full of tears,
Away with dirges that sadden.
Let us make the most of our fleeting years,
By singing the lays that gladden.
The world at its saddest is not all sad---
There are days of sunny weather.
And the people within it are not all bad,
But saints and sinners together.
I think those wonderful hours in June,
Are better by far, to remember,
Than those when the world gets out of tune
In the cold, bleak winds of November.
Because we meet in the walks of life
Many a selfish creature,
It does not prove that this world of strife
Has no redeeming feature.
There is bloom, and beauty upon the earth,
There are buds and blossoming flowers,
There are souls of truth, and hearts of worth---
There are glowing, golden hours.
In thinking over a joy we've known,
We easily make it double.
Which is better by far, than to mope and moan,
Over sorrow and grief and trouble.
For though this world is sad, we know,
(And who that is living can doubt it,)
It will not lessen the want, or woe,
To be always singing about it.
Shells. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee:Hauser & Storey, 1873
16th
Why do we pity those who weep? The pain
That finds a ready outlet in the flow
Of salt and bitter tears, is blessèd woe,
And does not need our sympathies. The rain
But fits the shorn field for new yield of grain.
DROUGHT
Why do we pity those who weep? The pain
That finds a ready outlet in the flow
Of salt and bitter tears is blessèd woe,
And does not need our sympathies. The rain
But fits the shorn field for new yield of grain;
While the red brazen skies, the sun's fierce glow,
The dry, hot winds that from the tropics blow,
Do parch and wither the unsheltered plain.
The anguish that through long, remorseless years
Looks out upon the world with no relief,
Of sudden tempests or slow dripping tears---
The still, unuttered, silent, wordless grief
That evermore doth ache, and ache, and ache---
This is the sorrow wherewith hearts do break.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
17th
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
Above, in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
But only smile with their eyes--
Smile on with their lustrous eyes
SONG (FROM "MAURINE")
O praise me not with thy lips, dear one!
Though thy tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,
Your tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
Though I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper far
By your sad, reproving eyes,
Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
Above, in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
But only smile with their eyes---
Smile on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
On the wingèd wind speech flies.
But I read the truth of your noble heart
In your soulful, speaking eyes---
In your deep and beautiful eyes.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.
18th
Many of us are obliged to regard our relatives like
our diseases, as sent to us for our discipline.
Epigram.
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
19th
Every time we entertain thoughts of love, sympathy,
forgiveness and faith, we add to the well-being of the
world, and create fortunate and successful conditions
for ourselves
Dividends
ur thoughts are shaping unmade
spheres,
And, like a blessing or a curse,
The thunder down the formless
years
And ring throughout the universe.
The more we realize the tremendous responsi-
bility of our mental emanations the better for the
world and ourselves. The sooner we teach little
children what a mighty truth lies in the Bible
phrase "As a man thinketh, so is he," the better
for future generations.
If a man thinks sickness, poverty and misfor-
tune, he will meet them and claim them all
eventually as his own. But he will not acknowl-
edge the close relationship, he will deny his
own children, and declare they were sent to him
by an evil fate.
Walter Atkinson tells us that "he who hates
is an assassin."
Every kindergarten and public school teacher
ought to embody this idea in the daily lessons for
children.
It may not be possible to teach a child to
"love every neighbor as himself," for that is the
most difficult of Commandments to follow to the
letter; but it is possible to eliminate hatred from
a nature if we awaken sympathy for the object
of dislike.
That which we pity we cannot hate. The
wonderful Intelligence which set this superb
system of worlds in action must have been inspired
by love for all it created.
So much grandeur and magnificence, so
much has been caused by man's substituting hate
and fear for love and faith.
Every time we allow either hate or fear to
dominate our minds we disarrange the order of
the universe and make trouble for humanity,
and ourselves.
It may be a little late in reaching us, but it
is sure to come back to the Mind which sent
forth the cause.
Every time we entertain thoughts of love,
sympathy, forgiveness and faith we add to the
well-being of the world, and create fortunate
and successful conditions for ourselves.
Those, too, may be late in coming to us--
BUT THEY WILL COME.
Right thinking is not attained in a day or a
week.
We must train the mind to reject the brood
of despondent, resentful, fearful and prejudiced
thoughts which approach it, and to invite
and entertain cheerful, broad and wholesome
thoughts instead, just as we overcome false tones
and cultivate musical ones in educating the
voice for singing.
When we once realize that by driving away
pessimistic, angry and bitter thoughts we drive
away sickness and misfortune to a great extent,
and that by seeking the kinder and happier
frame of mind we seek the same time success
and health and good luck, we will find a new
impetus in the control of our mental forces.
For we all love to be paid for our worthy
deeds, even while we believe in being good for
good's sake only. And nothing in life is surer
than this:
RIGHT THINKING PAYS LARGE DIVI-
DENDS.
Think success, prosperity, usefulness. It is
much more profitable than thinking self-destruc-
tion or the effort at self-destruction for
that is an act which aims at an impossibility.
You can destroy the body, but the you who suffers
in mind and spirit will suffer still, and live still.
You will only change your location from one
state to another. You did not make yourself,
you cannot unmake yourself. You can merely
put yourself among the spiritual tramps who
hang about the earth's borders, because they
have not prepared a better place for themselves.
Suicide is cheap, vulgar and cowardly.
Because you have made a wreck of a portion of
this life, do not make a wreck of the next.
Mend up your broken life here, go along
bravely and with sympathy and love in your heart,
determined to help everybody you can, and to
better your condition as soon as possible. Men
have done this after fifty, and lived thirty good
years to enjoy the results.
Do not feel hurt by the people who slight you,
or who refer to your erring past. Be sorry for
them. I would rather be a tender-hearted
reformed sinner than a hard-hearted model of
good behavior.
I would rather learn sympathy through sin
than never learn it at all.
There is nothing we cannot live down, and
rise above, and overcome. There is nothing we
cannot be in the way of nobility and worth.
The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902.
20th
There's lack of greatness in this generation
Because no more, man centers on one thought.
We know this truth and yet we heed it not--
The secret of success is Concentration
CONCENTRATION
The age is too diffusive. Time and Force
Are frittered out and bring no satisfaction.
The way seems lost to straight determined action.
Like shooting stars that zig-zag from their course
We wander from our orbit's pathway! spoil
The rôle we're fitted for, to fail in twenty.
Bring empty measures that were shaped for plenty,
At last as guerdon for a life of toil.
There's lack of greatness in this generation
Because no more man centres on one thought.
We know this truth and yet we heed it not,
The secret of success is Concentration.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906.
21st
If we chance to love a loveless individual, to give
to one bankrupt in gratitude, to toil for the unappre-
ciative, it is but a temporary deprivation for us. The
love, the gratitude and the recompense will all come
to us in time from some source or many sources. It
can not fail
Royalty
e get what we give. I have never
known this rule to fail in the
Long run. If we give sympathy,
appreciation, goodwill, charitable
thoughts, admiration and love--
we receive all these back from
humanity in time.
We may bestow them unworthily, as the
sower of good seed may cast it on a rocky surface;
but the winds of heaven will scatter it broadcast,
and, while the rock remains barren, the fields
shall yield a golden harvest.
The seed must be good , however.
If I say to myself without any real regard for
another in my heart, "I want that person to like
me, I will do all in my power to please him,"
I need not be surprised if my efforts fail or prove
of only temporary efficacy.
Neither need I feel surprised or pained if I find
by-and-by that other people are bestowing policy
friendship upon me, actions with no feeling for
a foundation.
No matter how kind and useful I make my
conduct toward an individual, if in my secret
heart I am criticising him severely and condemn-
ing him, I must expect criticism and condem-
nation from others as my portion.
We reap what we sow. Some harvests are
longer in growing than others, but they all grow
in time.
Servility in love, or friendship, or duty, is
never commendable. I do not believe God Him-
self feels complimented when the beings He
created as the highest type of His workmanship
declare themselves worthless worms, unworthy
of His regard!
We are heirs of God's kingdom, and rightful
inheritors of happiness, and health, and success.
What monarch would feel pleasure in having his
children crawl in the dust, saying, "We are less
than nothing, miserable, unworthy creatures?"
Would he not prefer to hear them say,
proudly: "We are of royal blood"?
We ought always to believe in our best selves,
in our right to love and be loved, to give and
receive happiness, and to toil and be rewarded.
And then we should bestow our love, our gifts
and our toil with no anxious thoughts about the
returns. If we chance to love a loveless indi-
vidual, to give to one bankrupt in gratitude,
to toil for the unappreciative, it is but a tem-
porary deprivation for us. The love, the
gratitude and the recompense will all come to
us in time from some source, or many sources.
It cannot fail.
The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902.
22nd
Not always the air that a master composes
Can stir human heart-strings with pleasure or pain;
But strange, subtle chords, like the scent of the roses,
Breathe out of some measures, though simple the strain.
MEMORY'S RIVER
In nature's bright blossoms not always reposes
That strange subtle essence more rare than their bloom,
Which lies in the hearts of Carnations and roses,
That unexplained something by men called perfume.
Though modest the flower, yet great is its power
And pregnant with meaning each pistil and leaf,
If only it hides there, if only abides there,
The fragrance suggestive of love, joy, and grief.
Not always the air that a master composes
Can stir human heart-strings with pleasure or pain.
But strange, subtle chords, like the scent of the roses,
Breathe out of some measures, though simple the strain.
And lo! when you hear them, you love them and fear them,
You tremble with anguish, you thrill with delight.
For back of them slumber old dreams without number,
And faces long vanished peer out into sight.
Those dear foolish days when the earth seemed all beauty,
Before you had knowledge enough to be sad,
When youth held no higher ideal of duty
Than just to lilt on through the world and be glad.
On harmony's river, they seemed to float hither
With all the sweet fancies that hung round that time,
Life's burdens and troubles turn into air-bubbles
And break on the music's swift current of rhyme.
Fair Folly comes back with her spell while you listen,
And points to the paths where she led you of old.
You gaze on past sunsets, you see dead stars glisten,
You bathe in life's glory, you swoon in death's cold.
All pains and all pleasures surge up through those measures,
Your heart is wrenched open with earthquakes of sound.
From ashes and embers rise Junes and Decembers,
Lost Islands in fathoms of feeling refound.
Some airs are like outlets of memory's oceans,
They rise in the past and flow into the heart.
And down them float ship-wrecks of mighty emotions,
All sea-soaked and storm-tossed and drifting apart.
Their fair timbers battered, their lordly sails tattered,
Their skeleton crew of dead days on their decks--
Then a crash of chords blending, a crisis, an ending,
The music is over, and vanished the wrecks.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906.
23rd
But we haven't much time to repine or whine,
Or to wound or jostle each other;
And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,
If we mean to assist a brother.
And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth,
But the worry it brings is double;
And all that repays for the strife of life,
Is helping some soul in trouble
A GREY MOOD
As we hurry away to the end, my friend,
Of this sad little farce called existence,
We are sure that the future will bring one thing,
And that is the grave in the distance.
And so when our lives run along all wrong,
And nothing seems real or certain,
We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not)
Of that spectre behind the curtain.
But we haven't much time to repine or whine,
Or to wound or jostle each other;
And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,
If we mean to assist a brother.
And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth,
But the worry it brings is double;
And all that repays for the strife of life
Is helping some soul in trouble.
I tell you, if I could go back the track
To my life's morning hour,
I would not set forth seeking name or fame,
Or that poor bauble called power.
I would be like the sunlight, and live to give;
I would lend, but I would not borrow;
Nor would I be blind and complain of pain,
Forgetting the meaning of sorrow.
This world is a vaporous jest at best,
Tossed off by the gods in laughter;
And a cruel attempt at wit were it,
If nothing better came after.
It is reeking with hearts that ache and break,
Which we ought to comfort and strengthen,
As we hurry away to the end, my friend,
And the shadows behind us lengthen.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.
24th
If we persistently desire good things to come to us
for unselfish purposes , and at the same time faithfully
perform the duties which lie nearest, we will event-
ually find our desires being realized in the most unex-
pected manner
Invincibility
f we persistently desire good things
to come to us for unselfish pur-
poses, and at the same time faith-
fully perform the duties which
lie nearest, we will eventually find
our desires being realized in the
most unexpected manner.
Our thought force has proved to be a wedge,
opening the seemingly inaccessible Wall of Cir-
cumstance.
To read good books, to think and ponder on
what you read, to cultivate every agreeable
quality you observe in others, and to weed from
your nature every unworthy and disagreeable
trait, to study humanity with an idea of being
helpful and sympathetic, all these efforts will help
you to the ultimate attainment of your wishes.
It is a proven fact that if we devote a few
moments each day to reaching exercises, stand-
ing with loose garments and stretching the body
muscles to reach some point above us, we
increase our stature.
Just so if we mentally and spiritually are
continually reaching to a higher plane we are
growing.
Every least thought of the brain is a chisel,
chipping away at our characters, and our char-
acters are building our destinies.
The incessant and persistent demand of our
hearts and minds MUST be granted.
The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902
25th
Be not content, contentment means inaction,
The growing soul aches on its upward quest;
Satiety is twin to satisfaction,
All great achievements spring from life's unrest.
BE NOT CONTENT
Be not content, contentment means inaction,
The growing soul aches on its upward quest;
Satiety is twin to satisfaction--
All great achievements spring from life's unrest.
The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding,
Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower
Were not an inborn restlessness abiding
In seed and germ, to stir them with its power.
Were man contented with his lot forever,
He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled,
And the vast wonder of our shores had never
Dawned on the gaze of an admiring world.
Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented,
There is a healthful restlessness of soul
By which a mighty purpose is augmented
In urging men to reach a higher goal.
So when the restless impulse rises, driving
Your calm content before it, do not grieve;
It is the upward reaching of the spirit
Of the God in you to achieve, achieve.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906
26th
The goal of serenity is far and high, and weary the
climb and many the fall; yet up and on again, for
only by reaching it can we attain to the best use of
ourselves and our opportunities
Serenity is Power.
"Every time we yield to an irritable impulse we find our-
selves out of harmony with the universe."
Quick temper is an indication of a lack of men-
tal and moral culture.
The ill-tempered Christian is not a Christian at
all, no matter what his faith may be.
There is but one evidence, I believe, in all His
life that the gentle Christ ever showed even
righteous indignation.
Anger is crude, and is an element of our early
savage ancestry, when men tore at each other like
brutes.
Many people imagine it is an evidence of a high
spirit to be quick-tempered.
It is merely an indication of crudity.
The highly cultured man never shows anger: the
man whose spiritual nature is highly developed
never feels it. He is secure under all conditions.
Many of us aim at this state, but few reach it.
Yet it is a goal worthy of a life-long effort.
Every time we yield to an irritable impulse, we
put ourselves out of harmony with the universe.
Every time we overcome such an impulse and re-
main calm, we bring ourselves nearer to divine law.
We all know the miserable sense of humiliation
which follows after a burst of anger. We feel an
indescribable emotion of abasement. We have
stepped down from our own ideal of ourselves. This
is true even of those who imagine that they believe
a quick temper to be an accomplishment. That is
only an opinion acquired by a false education, while
the knowledge that anger is ignoble comes from the
Infinite. The habit of ill-temper, once acquired,
is a difficult one to break. It requires patience and
faith and character.
Vanity, too, is an aid. A girl who prided herself
upon always wearing becoming gowns and hats was
once rebuked by a friend for her quick temper.
"Don't get in a temper over every little annoy-
ance," the friend said. "It is so unbecoming. It
quite spoils your looks when you are in such a
mood."
The young woman had often been told her tem-
per was a sin and a vice, but she had never before
been made to feel that it was "unbecoming," like
an ugly hat or ill-fitting frock.
She set about the task of controlling her temper,
and succeeded admirably.
First, she controlled her speech, then she con-
trolled her appearance, and after a time she found
her feelings were controlling themselves.
In one burst of anger we exhaust enough vitality
to take us through days of hardship and depriva-
tion, or to enable us to do some great deed of
courage and heroism.
In little, continuous ill-tempers we dissipate our
strength as a leaking gas-main wastes its force,
poisoning the air with the element which should be
conserved for light and heat.
"Serenity is power."
Let us all remember the great truth contained in
those three words.
The noisy thunder does nothing. The silent
lightning strikes.
The greatest possible aid to the control of the
temper is to remember that an exhibition of anger
is a vulgarity.
Most of us would rather be vicious than vulgar.
The goal of serenity is far and high, and weary the
climb and many the fall; yet, up and on again, for
only by reaching it can we attain to the best use of
ourselves and our opportunities.
Every-day thoughts in prose and verse. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: W. B. Conkey Company, 1901.
27th
Forgetfulness was meant for pain,
Remembrance for pleasure.
Song.
28th
A lovely little keeper of the home,
Absorbed in menu books, yet erudite
When I need counsel; quick at repartee
And slow to anger. Modest as a flower
Yet scintillant and radiant as a star
A MAN'S IDEAL
A lovely little keeper of the home,
Absorbed in menu books, yet erudite
When I need counsel; quick at repartee
And slow to anger. Modest as a flower
Yet scintillant and radiant as a star.
Unmercenary in her mould of mind,
While opulent and dainty in her tastes.
A nature generous and free, albeit
The incarnation of economy.
She must be chaste as proud Diana was,
Yet warm as Venus. To all others cold
As some white glacier glittering in the sun;
To me as ardent as the sensuous rose
That yields its sweetness to the burrowing bee.
All ignorant of evil in the world,
And innocent as any cloistered nun,
Yet wise as Phrynne in the arts of love
When I come thirsting to her nectared lips.
Good as the best, and tempting as the worst,
A saint, a siren, and a paradox.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
29th
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
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
30th
Never hesitate to give aid where you feel there is
sore and pressing need, for fear you will be left in
want yourself. You will not be
Generosity
ave you ever observed how invari-
ably your "last dollar" is restored
to you, with additions, when you
have given it for some worthy pur-
pose?
Even if the purpose did not
prove to be a worthy one, yet if you thought it
so, and gave your last dollar with spontaneous
sympathy and good will, you were not long left
penniless.
Money is much like a man. If you do not
hold it too jealously it returns to you the more
readily.
Never hesitate to give aid where you feel
there is sore and pressing need, for fear you will
be left in want yourself. You will not be.
This does not mean that indiscriminate char-
ity is commendable. It does not mean that you
should lend money to everyone who asks, or lift
and carry the burdens of everyone who is ready
to lean upon you.
It is as wrong to encourage the man addicted
to the vice of borrowing, as the one with the
vice of alcohol or drugs.
One depends upon his acquaintances to tide
him over hard places, instead of upon his own
strength of character, and the other depends
upon stimulants for the same purpose. The too
ready leader is almost as great as evil to human-
ity as rum or opium, since he too helps a man to
kill his own better nature and destroy his self-
respect.
If you were able and willing to pay rents of
all the poor people you know, and clothe their
children, you would soon produce a condition of
settled pauperism among them. Large and fre-
quent favors of a financial nature are an injury
to anyone, even if it is your son or brother.
Let no man lean on anyone save God and his
own divine self.
But little helps, when they are unexpected,
arouse hope and awaken new faith and new
ambition in a discouraged soul.
Look about you for such souls, the worn and
weary father of a brood of hungry children, the
widow struggling with adverse fate in an effort
to clothe and educate a child, the tired shop girl
who uses all her earnings to sustain her parents,
the ambitious boy or girl eager for a chance in
life, and the poor couple or invalid seeking
health. You will find them all about you. Do
not be afraid to use a dollar here or there to
give these worthy ones a happy surprise, no
matter how poor you are.
It is an insult to the Opulent Creator to sup-
pose you will suffer want and poverty if you help
those who are in temporary misfortune.
You will not.
Ofttimes we read and hear of the open-handed
generous man who "helped everybody," and who
"never refused to aid a needy brother," and who
ended his life in penury because of his generosity.
Never believe these tales until you investigate
them. Invariably you will find not generosity
but extravagance and utter lack of forethought,
caused the man's financial ruin.
I recall a gifted young woman who gave freely
to all who asked her assistance and who died a
lingering death as a charity patient in a a hospital.
Yet this young woman had expended ten dol-
lars on foolish and rapid living where she gave
one in charity; it was her wasteful extravagance,
not her open heart of sympathy, which made her
a pauper.
It has been my observation that dollars
planted in the soil of benevolence grow into har-
vests of prosperity. The man who is not afraid
to use his small means to assist others need
not fear poverty.
The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902.
31st
A songless wood stripped bare of glory--
A sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its last love-story--
Oh, let us away to the gay, bright town
THE END OF THE SUMMER
The birds laugh loud and long together
When Fashion's followers speed away
At the first cool breath of autumn weather.
Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay!
When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over
Both look their passion through sun-kissed space,
As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover
Might each gaze into the other's face.
Oh, this is the time when careful spying
Discovers the secrets Nature knows.
You find when the butterflies plan for flying
(Before the thrush or the blackbird goes),
You see some day by the water's edges,
A brilliant border of red and black;
And then off over the hills and hedges
It flutters away on the summer's track.
The shy little sumacs, in lonely places
Bowed all summer with dust and heat,
Like clean-clad children with rain-washed faces,
Are dressed in scarlet from head to feet.
And never a flower had the boastful summer
In all the blossoms that decked her sod,
So royal hued as that later comer
The purple chum of the goldenrod.
Some chill gray dawn you note with grieving
That the King of Autumn is on his way.
You see with a sorrowful slow believing
How the wanton woods have gone astray.
They wear the stain of bold caresses,
Of riotous revels with old King Frost;
They dazzle all eyes with their gorgeous dresses,
Nor care that their green young leaves are lost.
A wet wind blows from the East one morning,
The wood's gay garments looked draggled out.
You hear a sound and your heart takes warning--
The birds are planning their winter route.
They wheel and settle and scold and wrangle,
Their tempers are ruffled, their voices loud;
Then whirr --and away in a feathered tangle
To fade in the south like a passing cloud.
A songless wood stripped bare of glory--
A sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its last love-story--
Oh, let us away to the gay bright town.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906
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