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I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I'll pluck the sober asters with good grace,
And call September nothing but September.
SEPTEMBER
My life's long radiant Summer halts at last
And lo! beside my pathway I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid coloring of bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day
I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.
Poems of Sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL: W. B. Conkey Company, 1906.
The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance,
Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb:
Essential to thy soul and thy existence--
live worthy of it--call, and it shall come
DESIRE
No joy for which thy hungering heart has panted,
No hope it cherishes through waiting years,
But, if thou dost deserve it, shall be granted---
For with each passionate wish the blessing nears.
Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy being
To chord with thy dear hope, and do not tire.
When both in key and rhythm are agreeing,
Lo! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire.
The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance,
Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb:
Essential to thy soul and thy existence---
Live worthy of it---call, and it shall come.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.
I can laugh at the world and its sages--
I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
Who knows how to be glad
A SONG OF LIFE
In the rapture of life and of living,
I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
In the sweet-scented sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather---
They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power,
In the pride and the pleasure of wealth,
(For who dares dispute me my dower
Of talents and youth-time and health?)
I can laugh at the world and its sages---
I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo,
The god of the beautiful days,
And my spirit soars off like a swallow
And is lost in the light of its rays.
Are you troubled and sad? I beseech you
Come out of the shadows of strife---
Come out in the sun while I teach you
The secret of life.
Come out of the world---come above it---
Up over its crosses and graves.
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises---
But only the perfume of flowers---
And your life shall be glad with surprises
Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
Apollo distils in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is
And as full of delight.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
Into my life's September came the beauty I missed in June,
The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon.
The dream that belongs to youth, golden, complete, sublime,
I dreamed not in the spring, but in the autumn time
A LAWYER'S ROMANCE
Into the mellow light of the cloudless autumn day,
Somehow, the vision slips, of a landscape, far away,
Wherever I turn my eyes, it hovers before them still,
The little, vine-wreathed cot, on the southerly slope of the hill,
The pasture at the left, the ducks a-swim in the pond,
And the straight, green rows of corn, with the wheat fields just beyond,
The sloping lawn on the right, that is always seeming to say
To the lake that lies below, "I will meet you just half way."
And over and over the cot, from th' ground to th' mossy eaves,
Cling, and twine. and clamber the vines, with their dark, green leaves;
The little mimic garden, with its simple flowers a-blow,
Larkspur, bleeding hearts, and the clumps of phlox, like snow;
Petunias, red and white, like drooping and fragile maids,
Rose trees hanging down, with roses of many shades,
Marigolds, batchelor-buttons, with clusters of evergreen,
On the two trim rows of beds, with the narrow path between,
And the setting rays of the sun, lending it all a flush,
That is given to sunset scenes, by the heavenly Artist's brush.
It is thus it rises to-day, and hovers before my eyes;
I have seen it softly lit, with the mornings' sweet surprise--
I have seen it when the dew glistened upon the grass--
In the hush of the summer noon, when the calm lake lay like glass--
In the ghostly rays o' the moon---in the quiet of the night--
But never half so fair as under that sunset light.
Ah! foolish, and weak old heart, must you live it over again?
Why reopen the book, whose final page was Pain!
But the picture rises before me, rises, and hovers there,
And the glory of the sunset falls on the maiden's hair;
The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago,
Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow.
Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then!
Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten;
But that one summer holds the essence of all my life,
The forty years before were records of toil and strife,
And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er,
And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.
Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town,
Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing down
To the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day,
And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;
Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years--
The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears--
I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes,
With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies
Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide!
But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side,
And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek!
"Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"
And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untold
Broke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolled
Forth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet,
Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."
And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips,
And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips,
"'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied,
With a touch of your finger tips, and farther than that denied."
The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close,
And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose.
I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see?
And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."
Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past!
Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast!
Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves,
When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.
I can hear it even now, the voices, strong ond sweet,
Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street,
I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair,
With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.
Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June,
The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon.
The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime,
I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.
Ah! and the young heart wakes from the dream of love, and then,
Suffers a little while, and dreams it over again.
But never a second draught of the wine of love for me,
I drank it all at the first, and shattered the cup, you see.
I woke from the golden dream when I saw her on the breast
Of a fair-faced, beardless youth--when I saw his red lips pressed
Over and over again to the mouth, like a rose half blown,
And I heard her whispered words--"My only love, my own."
Hush! censure them not! His heart she toyed with even as mine.
He suffered keenly, I think, then knelt at another's shrine.
And she--speak softly of her--she died: she is only dust;
Died repentant--forgiven--and entered Heaven--I trust.
And I--well my years drift on, as my two-score drifted away,
Only at times, this memory comes, as it came to-day,
Thrilling me through and through--and I live it all once more,
Though I shut the past away, and have striven to lock the door.
Have I lost all faith in woman? Nay, surely not: should we
Say that every heart is false because one proves to be!
Because I find a worm in the petals of a rose,
Shall I say that worms are coiled in every flower that blows?
Nay, there are constant woman, and women as sweet and fair
As she with the amber eyes, and the shadows on her hair.
But I found the wine of love so late, that when I quaffed
I held none in reserve, but drank it all at a draught.
The future? I do not dread: it is neither dark nor bright.
I have had my day of joy--I have had my sorrow's night.
God helped me through the last--I do not know just how,
But He answered when I called Him, and why should I doubt him now?
Nor mortal eye can see, nor mortal heart conceive,
What He holdeth in His kingdom for the faithful that believe.
But I sometimes think the dream that was broken here for me,
I shall finish and complete by the shining Jasper sea.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873
Time will not make the balance right
For those who trouble borrow;
Nor recompense with late delight,
The hearts that cling to sorrow
A SONG OF LIFE
In the rapture of life and of living,
I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
In the sweet-scented sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather---
They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power,
In the pride and the pleasure of wealth,
(For who dares dispute me my dower
Of talents and youth-time and health?)
I can laugh at the world and its sages---
I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo,
The god of the beautiful days,
And my spirit soars off like a swallow
And is lost in the light of its rays.
Are you troubled and sad? I beseech you
Come out of the shadows of strife---
Come out in the sun while I teach you
The secret of life.
Come out of the world---come above it---
Up over its crosses and graves.
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises---
But only the perfume of flowers---
And your life shall be glad with surprises
Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
Apollo distils in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is
And as full of delight.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
I live not like the people of this land.
They live for gold, for narrow aims, for fashion;
They hate, they envy, and they dwell in strife.
My soul is steeped in color and in passion.
I love all incense, beauty, light and heat--
Without them life to me is incomplete.
I am so full of love I cannot hate
MYSELF.
I was not meant for this cold land.
I am a part, of some far foreign clime,
Where gorgeous-plumaged birds do flit
Among the tropic blooms, or sit
And drink the sun, and pour it out in songs.
There, there my soul belongs.
By some pre-natal error, I became
A dweller here, and shall be for all time.
So I have taught my heart to understand
And bear with this land's moods of ice of snow.
Yet me it doth not know.
And when my soul athirst for warmth and light
Sets my ripe Southern nature all aflame,
The bleak wind seems to howl out words of blame,
Because I do not revel in its night
Of endless winter, but am all aglow
With life and color.--Me it doth not know.
I am not like the people of this land.
They are so pale, so stately and so cold.
They are made out of snow, and I of fire.
They know no intense longing or desire.
Yet I have taught my heart to understand
Their little feelings: and have tuned my lyre
And sung their songs for them: and told
Their woes and sorrows, so they seemed my own--
While foreign to all I have felt or known.
And yet among them all, there is no man,
And not one woman, who knows me; or can
Make least allowance, if for one small hour
My heart blooms out like some great tropic flower--
Ignores their dull, pale, soulless hues, and speaks
Its orient thoughts and feelings on my cheeks.
I live not like the people of this land.
They live for gold, for narrow aims, for fashion,
They hate, they envy, and they dwell in strife.
My soul is steeped in color and in passion.
I love all incense, beauty, light, and heat;
Without them life to me is incomplete.
I am so full of love I cannot hate,
But I love not those forms and airs of state.
Yet I have taught my heart to understand
These ways and manners, to adopt this life
In all externals lest I do displease.
But let me vary from their narrow laws
One least iota, and not one of these
Can overlook it. Like so many daws
They pick at me in anger and dismay.
I understand and pity them, but they
Can never comprehend me.
Be it so!
But had I wings, how swiftly I would go
To that far island, where I do belong,
And pour my soul out in impassioned song,
And stretch my limbs in freedom 'neath the trees,
And listen to the ever lulling breeze,
And revel in the seas of gorgeous bloom,
My couch in life, in death my peaceful tomb.
Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 1876
You have some quality, some feature, some bless-
ing, which you would not exchange with any other
person. Realize that, and rejoice in it. Realize, too,
that all possibilities of happiness, success and achieve-
ment lie in yourself.
Success Papers.
How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we intertwine
And make the perfect whole
WOMAN TO MAN
"Woman is man's enemy, rival and competitor." -- John J. Ingalls.
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals! How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we intertwine
And make the perfect whole. You could not be,
Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil
Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read
One woman bore a child with no man's aid
We find no record of a man-child born
Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood
Is but a small achievement at the best
While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
Our rightful occupation in this life.
Why prate of our defects, of where we fail,
When just the story of our worth would need
Eternity for telling, and our best
Development comes ever thro' your praise,
As through our praise you reach your highest self.
Oh! had you not been miser of your praise
And let our virtues be their own reward
The old established order of the world
Would never have been changed. Small blame is ours
For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse
Effeminizing of the male. We were
Content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.
All we have done, or wise, or otherwise
Traced to the root, was done for love of you.
Let us taboo all vain comparisons,
And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,
Companions, mates and comrades evermore;
Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
Our rightful occupation in this life
WOMAN TO MAN
"Woman is man's enemy, rival and competitor." -- John J. Ingalls.
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals! How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we intertwine
And make the perfect whole. You could not be,
Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil
Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read
One woman bore a child with no man's aid
We find no record of a man-child born
Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood
Is but a small achievement at the best
While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
Our rightful occupation in this life.
Why prate of our defects, of where we fail,
When just the story of our worth would need
Eternity for telling, and our best
Development comes ever thro' your praise,
As through our praise you reach your highest self.
Oh! had you not been miser of your praise
And let our virtues be their own reward
The old established order of the world
Would never have been changed. Small blame is ours
For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse
Effeminizing of the male. We were
Content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.
All we have done, or wise, or otherwise
Traced to the root, was done for love of you.
Let us taboo all vain comparisons,
And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,
Companions, mates and comrades evermore;
Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
Some feet must tread all heights now unattained.
Why not thine own? Press on, achieve, achieve!
Achievement.
To be a woman is a glorious thing,
And to be beautiful and bright; ah, sweet,
When all is done, what talents you must bring
To lay down at the generous Giver's feet.
Be this your aim--that at the end men say,
"The world seems better since she passed this way."
A DOMESTIC CONVERSATION
SCENE: The family living-room.
CHARACTERS:
Elaine , just from boarding school--seventeen, voluptuous and romantic.
Helen , her mother, married to her first lover, and as ignorant of men, women and children as such mothers usually are.
Ralph , the father, who had sowed a large crop of wild oats before marriage, and then, as is customary with men, serenely expects his children to be seraphs.
Marie , his sister, twice a widow, and knowing human nature in all its complexity--childless, but better able to rear children than are their fathers or mothers.Elaine, primping before the mirror in a new gown with a demi-train:
"Now I have finished school, put up my hair
And down my skirts, I think it is my right
To learn about the world which seems so fair.
I hear of girls who win all hearts at sight--
Tell me, dear parents, and dear aunt, I pray,
How can I make men love--"T he father, looking up from his paper, startled and angry:
"Tut, tut, I say,
What sort of talk is this for chit like you!
Is that the theme you studied in your school?
That old Italian's theory must be true
About degenerates--"Aunt Marie, quietly interrupting:
"Ralph, don't be a fool
(Tho' forty years you've stood upon the brink);
Elaine, but speaks what other girls all think."The mother, mildly:
"Elaine is but a child! She does not know
The meaning of the words she uses; she
Has not a thought that is not pure as snow.
There, Ralph, you've made our darling weep, you see;
You should not let your temper fly so loose."Elaine, petulantly:
"I will not be set down for such a goose,
Mamma, as you would make me out: I'm sure
I know quite well what I am talking of.
Where is the sin, and, pray, what is impure
In craving knowledge of a thing like love?
I heard a man last night tell Aunt Marie
She must have taken the thirty-third degree
In Cupid's order! And the way he smiled
I know he did not think dear auntie bad."The mother, looking troubled:
"Just hear her prattle on, the simple child."The father, throwing down his paper and bursting out anew:
"A convent is the place for her! Egad!
She's too precocious! It's a pretty pass
When subjects such as these absorb a lass
Of seventeen!"Aunt Marie, in an aside:
("Her mother's years were less
By one, and yours by five, I think, were more
When you eloped! Nell lengthened down her dress
By letting out the hem the night before.
And Nell was not your first love, either. Queer,
How apples grow on trees, Ralph dear,
Now isn't it?")Aloud to Elaine:
"Come close, my sweet Elaine,
Your father and your mother and myself
Will listen to your questions. Now be plain
(If that could be with such a charming elf);
Tell us your thoughts, reveal your very heart.
Who but your elders should life's truths impart?
Your father does but jest, and play a role;
Your mother too! They both know, as I do,
That love is the germ, the purpose and the goal
Of every living thing; they know when you
Ask questions about love, it is because
You are a part of that Eternal Cause.
They know the maid or youth who does not muse
Or wonder over love the beautiful
Has missed imagination's sweetest use,
And must be ill, anemic or quite dull.
They know the danger, too, that lurks in dreams
Not anchored by some knowledge of such themes,
And they are glad to have this privilege;
Your confidence is love's sweet recompense.
Hide not behind your timid maiden hedge,
But meet us on the plains of common sense.
We all were young like you, once! And all three
Were just as full of curiosity."Elaine, shyly:
"Well--oh--there is so much I want to learn:
How to win love--I do not want to miss
This happiness in life! And oft I yearn
To know the meaning of a lover's kiss--
I read of it in story, verse and song,
And yet some people seem to think it wrong."The father, hastily:
"Wrong! Yes 'tis wrong--'tis very wrong. In truth,
'Tis even wicked. It's a deed to shun."The mother, hesitatingly:
"Until you are a wife! Or if the youth
Has bid you name the day--why, then just one
Wee--little--kiss, perhaps, upon the cheek--"Elaine:
"In books it is the lips men seem to seek."Aunt Marie:
"A kiss is like a bee--a honeyed thing
One needs approach with caution. In its sweet
Lies hidden oft a very cruel sting.
It is no sin to kiss--but more discreet
To keep your lips for love's pre-nuptial feast."The father;
"I'd shoot the man down like a ravenous beast
Who from my daughter's lips should dare to brush
The bloom of innocence."Marie, aside to him:
("Ralph, I recall the only time I ever saw you blush:
I caught you kissing Helen in the hall
Full three long months before you two were one.
How fortunate her father had no gun!")Aloud, to Elaine:
"Be lovable and loving, would you win
The love of other souls! To warmth, not cold,
The roses yield their fragrance. Here within
The safe home garden let your heart unfold
Its treasures. Think , not idly sit and dream;
And be , nor rest content to merely seem .
The holiest thing in life is love's grand passion;
Make no light jest of it, nor dissipate
Your wealth of womanhood in idle fashion,
Pretending love, until you find, too late,
You have no feeling even to play the part.
There is no beggary like a paupered heart.
To be a woman is a glorious thing,
And to be beautiful and bright; ah, sweet,
When all is done, what talents you must bring
To lay down at the generous Giver's feet.
Be this your aim--that at the end men say,
'The world seems better since she passed this way."
(Exit Elaine.)Marie, turning to parents:
"Deliberate criminals--colossal fools,
To bring a child to earth the usual way
And then to shut her with old maids in schools
And think your duty done! To frown and say
'Shame,' when her growing mind would reach and climb
To those great truths that are as old as time.
To know her born of you and your desire,
Yet think her free from mortal passions! Oh,
I wonder God's great patience does not tire
Looking on fools of parents here below."
(Goes out and bangs the door.)Helen, sighing:
"So queer, and such a temper! It is plain
She's not the chaperone for our Elaine."Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
For he who drinks from a god's gold fountain
Of art, or music, or rhythmic song,
Must sift from his soul the chaff of malice,
And weed from his heart the roots of wrong.
Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting!
And not like gems in a beggar's hands.
And the toil must be constant and unremitting
Which lifts up the king to the crown's demands
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
I hold it the duty of one who is gifted
And specially dowered in all men's sight,
To know no rest till his life is lifted
Fully up to his great gifts' height.He must mold the man into rare completeness,
For gems are set only in gold refined.
He must fashion his thoughts into perfect sweetness,
And cast out folly and pride from his mind.For he who drinks from a god's gold fountain
Of art or music or rhythmic song
Must sift from his soul the chaff of malice,
And weed from his heart the roots of wrong.Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting!
And not like gems in a beggar's hands.
And the toil must be constant and unremitting
Which lifts up the king to the crown's demands.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
Oh! are there heights thy feet would press?
Seek Love, the key to all Success.
It fits all doors, it turns all locks;
It leads the way through walls and rocks;
It lifts the bolt, unbars the gate
And shows us where life's treasures wait.
The Key.
Two blending paths beneath God's arching skies
Lead straight to Pleasure. Ah, blind heart of youth,
Not up fame's height, not toward the base god's goal,
Doth Pleasure make her way, but 'neath calm skies
When Duty walks with Love in endless youth
SESTINA
I wandered o'er the vast green plains of youth,
And searched for Pleasure. On a distant height
Fame's silhouette stood sharp against the skies.
Beyond vast crowds that thronged a broad highway
I caught the glimmer of a golden goal,
While from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love,
With all the haughty insolence of youth,
As past her bower I strode to seek my goal.
"Now will I climb to glory's dizzy height,"
I said, "for there above the common way
Doth pleasure dwell companioned by the skies."But when I reached that summit near the skies,
So far from man I seemed, so far from Love--
"Not here," I cried, "doth Pleasure find her way."
Seen from the distant borderland of youth,
Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height,
But frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal,
Dear to all sense--sunk souls beneath the skies.
Gold tempts the artist from the lofty height,
Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love,
Gold buys the fresh ingenuous heart of youth,
"And gold," I said, "will show me Pleasure's way."But ah! the soil and discord of that way,
Where savage hordes rushed headlong to the goal,
Dead to the best impulses of their youth,
Blind to the azure beauty of the skies;
Dulled to the voice of conscience and of love,
They wandered far from Truth's eternal height.Then Truth spoke to me from that noble height,
Saying: "Thou didst pass Pleasure on the way,
She with the yearning eyes so full of Love,
Whom thou disdained to seek for glory's goal.
Two blending paths beneath God's arching skies
Lead straight to Pleasure. Ah, blind heart of youth,
Not up fame's height, not toward the base god's goal,
Doth Pleasure make her way, but 'neath calm skies
Where Duty walks with Love in endless youth."Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
If one poor burdened toiler o'er life's road,
Who meets us by the way,
Goes on less conscious of his galling load,
Then life, indeed, does pay.
If we can show one troubled heart the gain
That lies always in loss,
Why, then, we, too, are paid for all the pain
Of bearing life's hard cross
"DOES IT PAY?"
If one poor burdened toiler o'er life's road,
Who meets us by the way,
Goes on less conscious of his galling load,
Then life, indeed, does pay.If we can show one troubled heart the gain
That lies alway in loss,
Why, then, we too, are paid for all the pain
Of bearing life's hard cross.If some despondent soul to hope is stirred,
Some sad lip made to smile,
By any act of ours, or any word,
Then, life has been worth while.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
. . . No crumbling creed
Can take from the immortal soul the need
Of that supreme creator, God. The wraith
Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth
Fades but to let us welcome new-born truth
THE TIMES
The times are not degenerate. Man's faith
Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed
Can take from the immortal soul the need
Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith
Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth
Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.Man may not worship at the ancient shrine
Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn.
That night is past. He hails a fairer morn,
And knows himself a something all divine;
No humble worm whose heritage is sin,
But, born of God, he feels the Christ within.Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time,
But deep his reverence for that mighty force,
That occult working of the great All-Source,
Which makes the present era so sublime.
Religion now means something high and broad,
And man stood never half so near to God.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
And if down awful chasms I must leap,
Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep
On bravely to the end without one fear,
Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near.
Love sent me forth, to Love I go again,
For Love is all and over all. Amen
THE RIVER
I am a river flowing from God's sea
Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me;
I cannot change it; mine alone the toil
To keep the waters free from grime and soil.
The winding river ends where it began;
And when my life has compassed its brief span
I must return to that mysterious source.
So let me gather daily on my course
The perfume from the blossoms as I pass,
Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass,
And carry down my current as I go
Not common stones but precious gems to show;
And tears (the holy water from sad eyes)
Back to God's sea, from which all rivers rise.
Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts,
Nor poison which the upas tree imparts.
When over flowery vales I leap with joy,
Let me not devastate them, nor destroy,
But rather leave them fairer to the sight;
Mine be the lot to comfort and delight.
And if down awful chasms I needs must leap
Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep
On bravely to the end without one fear,
Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near.
Love sent me forth, to Love I go again,
For Love is all, and over all. Amen.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays,
As passing years are proving, for all of Time's sad ways.
There lies a sting in pleasure,
And fame gives shallow measure,
And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days--
For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
Christmas Fancies.
Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel
And steer to knowledge, glory and success.
Great mariners have made the pathway plain
For thee to follow; hold thou to the course
Of Concentration Channel, and all things
Shall come in answer to thy swerveless wish,
As comes the needle to the magnet's call
THY SHIP
Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored
The priceless riches of all climes and lands,
Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas
Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport,
And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed
Lies all the wealth of this vast universe--
Yea, lies some part of God's omnipotence,
The legacy divine of every soul.
Thy will, O man, thy will is that great ship,
And yet behold it drifting here and there--
One moment lying motionless in port,
Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung,Then drying on the sands, and yet again
Sent forth on idle quests to no-man's land
To carry nothing and to nothing bring;
Till worn and fretted by the aimless strife
And buffeted by vacillating winds
It founders on a rock, or springs a leak
With all its unused treasures in the hold.Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel
And steer to knowledge, glory and success.Great mariners have made the pathway plain
For thee to follow; hold thou to the course
Of Concentration Channel, and all things
Shall come in answer to thy swerveless wish
As comes the needle to the magnet's call,
Or sunlight to the prisoned blade of grass
That yearns all winter for the kiss of spring.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
Thicker and thicker the churches,
Nearer and nearer the sky--
But alack for their creeds while the poor man's needs
Grow deeper as years roll by
CONTRASTS
I see the tall church steeples,
They reach so far, so far;
But the eyes of my heart see the world's great mart
Where the starving people are.I hear the church bells ringing
Their chimes on the morning air;
But my soul's sad ear is hurt to hear
The poor man's cry of despairThicker and thicker the churches,
Nearer and nearer the sky---
But alack for their creeds while the poor man's needs
Grow deeper as years roll by.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
What a world
Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not
In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills
As lie in human hearts. Should our desires,
Voiced one by one in prayer, ascend to God
And come back as events shaped to our wish,
What chaos would result
UNANSWERED PRAYERS
Like some school master, kind in being stern,
Who hears the children crying o'er their slates
And calling, "Help me, master!" yet helps not,
Since in his silence and refusal lies
Their self-development, so God abides
Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf
To any cry sent up from earnest hearts;
He hears and strengthens when He must deny.
He sees us weeping over life's hard sums,
But should He give the key and dry our tears,
What would it profit us when school were done
And not one lesson mastered?
What a world
Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not
In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills
As lie in human hearts. Should our desires,
Voiced one by one in prayer, ascend to God
And come back as events shaped to our wish,
What chaos would result!
In my fierce youth
I sighed out breath enough to move a fleet,
Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons
Which were denied; and that denial bends
My knee to prayers of gratitude each day
Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers
I rose alway regirded for the strife
And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart,
That which thou pleadest for may not be given,
But in the lofty altitude where souls
Who supplicate God's grace are lifted, there
Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot
Which is not elsewhere found.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
"Where did I come from?" Straight from God,
Like the shell from the sea or the sprout from the sod.
You are part of it all--no less, no more,
So stop your queries and trust and adore.
Where, Whence, Why.
Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure,
Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel;
And its attainment hangs but on the measure
Of what thy soul can feel
THOUGHT-MAGNETS
With each strong thought, with every earnest longing
For aught thou deemest needful to thy soul,
Invisible vast forces are set thronging
Between thee and that goal.'Tis only when some hidden weakness alters
And changes thy desire, or makes it less,
That this mysterious army ever falters
Or stops short of success.Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure,
Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel;
And its attainment hangs but on the measure
Of what thy soul can feel.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
She had looked for his coming as warriors come,
With the clash of arms and the bugle's call;
But he came instead with a stealthy tread,
Which she did not hear at all
LOVE'S COMING
She had looked for his coming as warriors come,
With the clash of arms and the bugle's call;
But he came instead with a stealthy tread,
Which she did not hear at all.She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,
As he rode like a prince to claim his bride;
In the sweet dim light of the falling night
She found him at her side.She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye
Would wake her heart to a sudden glow:
She found in his face the familiar grace
Of a friend she used to know.She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul,
As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife:
He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,
And a peace which crowned her life.Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
I wish the world were kinder and more just--
Therefore I must
Myself be just and kind, and in that way
Speed the great day.
I wish the strong might always aid the weak,
Therefore I speak
For my dumb kindred. You who have heart and ear,
Listen and hear.
I Wish the World.
I know not wherefore, but God lent
A deeper vision to my sight.
On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent,
I catch the beauty Infinite;
That underlying, hidden half
That all things hold of Deity.
So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh;
Their eyes are blind--they can not see.DUST-SEALED
I know not wherefore, but mine eyes
See bloom, where other eyes see blight.
They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
Where others but discern deep night.Men call me an enthusiast,
And say I look through gilded haze,
Because where'er my gaze is cast,
I see something that calls for praise.I say, "Behold those lovely eyes---
That tinted cheek of flowerlike grace."
They answer in amused surprise:
"We thought it such a common face."I say, "Was ever scene more fair?
I seem to walk in Eden's bowers."
They answer, with a pitying air,
"The weeds are choking out the flowers."I know not wherefore, but God lent
A deeper vision to my sight.
On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent,
I catch the beauty Infinite;That underlying, hidden half
That all things hold of Deity.
So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh---
Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
Each wave so like the wave which came before,
Yet never two the same! Imperative
And then persuasive as the cooing dove.
Encroaching ever on the yielding shore--
Ready to take, yet readier still to give--
How like the myriad-minded sea is love
HOW LIKE THE SEA
How like the sea, the myriad-minded sea,
Is this large love of ours: so vast, so deep,
So full of mysteries! it, too, can keep
Its secrets, like the ocean; and is free,
Free, as the boundless main. Now it may be
Calm like the brow of some sweet child asleep;
Again its seething billows surge and leap
And break in fulness of their ecstasy.Each wave so like the wave which came before,
Yet never two the same! Imperative
And then persuasive as the cooing dove,
Encroaching ever on the yielding shore--
Ready to take; yet readier still to give--
How like the myriad-minded sea, is love.Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
God made no such thing as ill luck. Man has made
it by false conditions, false ideals, false thoughts and
deeds.
Luck in Life.
The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest's blast
Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
Unhappy witness of its own decay.
May no men ever look on me and say:
"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."
USELESSNESS
Let mine not be the saddest fate of all,
To live beyond my greater self; to see
My faculties decaying, as the tree
Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall
Let me hear rather the imperious call,
Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,
And follow death ere I have reached my prime,
Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall.
The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast
Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
Unhappy witness of its own decay.
May no man ever look on me and say,
"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
Love much. There is no waste in freely giving;
More blessed is it even than to receive.
He who loves much alone finds life worth living.
Love on, through doubt and darkness and believe
There is no thing which Love may not achieve
LOVE MUCH
Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it;
Cast sweets into its cup whene'er you can.
No heart so hard, but love at last may win it;
Love is the grand primeval cause of man;
All hate is foreign to the first great plan.
Love much. Your heart will be led out to slaughter,
On altars built of envy and deceit.
Love on, love on! 'tis bread upon the water;
It shall be cast in loaves yet at your feet,
Unleavened manna, most divinely sweet.
Love much. Your faith will be dethroned and shaken,
Your trust betrayed by many a fair, false lure.
Remount your faith, and let new trusts awaken.
Though clouds obscure them, yet the stars are pure;
Love is a vital force and must endure.
Love much. Men's souls contract with cold suspicion,
Shine on them with warm love, and they expand.
'Tis love, not creeds, that from a low condition
Lead mankind up to heights supreme and grand.
Oh, that the world could see and understand!
Love much. There is no waste in freely giving;
More blessed is it, even, than to receive.
He who loves much, alone finds life worth living;
Love on, through doubt and darkness; and believe
There is no thing which Love may not achieve.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
Love is enough. Why should we ask for more?
What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
What better boon of all their precious store,
Than our fond hearts that love and love again?
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
And life is fair and all the world complete.
Love is enough
"LOVE IS ENOUGH"
Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold.
Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness;
In those serene, Arcadian days of old
Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress.
The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia's height
Lived only for dear love and love's delight.
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we care for fame?
Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:
It lures us with the glory of a name
Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.
Let us stay here in this secluded place
Made beautiful by love's endearing grace!
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we strive for power?
It brings men only envy and distrust.
The poor world's homage pleases but an hour,
And earthly honours vanish in the dust.
The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;
Let me be loved, and let who will be great.
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we ask for more?
What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
What better boon of all their precious store
Than our fond hearts that love and love again?
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
And life is fair and all the world complete:
Love is enough!
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
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