Around the Year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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I and my Soul are alone to-day, 
   All in the shining weather. 
We were sick of the world, and we sent it away
   So we could rejoice together. 
Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky, 
   Is pouring a rare, sweet wine 
In the burnished gold of his cup on high, 
   For me and this soul of mine. 
And sitting here with my Soul alone, 
   Where the yellow sun rays fall, 
Of all the friends I have ever known 
   I find it the best of all. 

 

1st

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.

 

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

 

2nd

The highest culture is to speak no ill;
The best reformer is the man whose eyes
Are quick to see all beauty and all worth,
And by his own discreet, well-ordered life
Alone reproves the erring.

 

TRUE CULTURE

The highest culture is to speak no ill;
The best reformer is the man whose eyes
Are quick to see all beauty and all worth;
And by his own discreet, well-ordered life,
Alone reproves the erring.
When thy gaze
Turns it on thy own soul, be most severe.
But when it falls upon a fellow-man,
Let kindliness control it; and refrain
From that belittling censure that springs forth
From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.

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

3rd

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year

THE YEAR

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.

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

4th

After thirty we must seize every hour and educate
ourselves to grow into agreeable old age.

Preparation

very day I hear middle-aged people
bemoaning the fact that they were
not given advantages or did not
seize the opportunities for an edu-
cation in early youth.
They believe that their lives
would be happier, better and more useful had an
education been obtained.
Scarcely one of these people realizes that
middle life is the schooltime for old age, and that
just as important an opportunity is being missed
or ignored day by day for the storing up of valu-
able knowledge which will be of great import-
ance in rendering old age endurable.
Youth is the season to acquire knowledge,
middle life is the time to acquire wisdom.
Old age is the season to enjoy both, but wis-
dom is far the more important of the two.
By wisdom I mean the philosophy which
enables us to control our tempers, curb our
tendency to severe criticism, and cultivate our
sympathies.
The majority of people after thirty-five con-
sider themselves privileged to be cross, irritable,
critical and severe, because they have lived long-
er than the young, because they have had more
trials and disappointments, and because they
believe they understand the world better.
Those are excellent reasons why they should
be patient, kind, broad and sympathetic.
The longer we live the more we should real-
ize the folly and vulgarity of ill-temper, the
cruelty of severe criticism and the necessity for
a broad-minded view of life, manners, morals
and customs.
Unless we adapt ourselves to the changing
habits of the world, unless we adopt some of the
new ideas that are constantly coming to the
front, we will find ourselves carping, disagree-
able and lonely old people as the years go by.
The world will not stand still for us. Society
will not wear the same clothes or follow the
same pleasures, or think the same thoughts
when we are eighty that were prevalent when
we were thirty. We must keep moving with
the world or stand still and solitary.
After thirty we must seize every hour and
educate ourselves to grow into agreeable old age.
It requires at least twenty years to become
well educated in book and college lore. If we
begin to study at seven we are rarely through
with all our common schools, seminaries, high
schools and colleges have to offer under a score
of years.
The education for old age needs fully as
many years. We need to begin at thirty to be
tolerant, patient, serene, trustful, sympathetic
and liberal. Then, at fifty, we may hope to have
"graduated with honors" from life's school of
wisdom, and be prepared for another score or
two of years of usefulness and enjoyment in the
practice of these qualities.

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

5th

Ah! When in the immortal ranks enlisted,
I sometimes wonder if we shall not find
That not by deeds, but by what we've resisted,
Our places are assigned

 

AS BY FIRE

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning
For spiritual perfection here below,
This vigorous frame with healthful fervour burning,
Seems my determined foe.

So actively it makes a stern resistance,
So cruelly sometimes it wages war
Against a wholly spiritual existence
Which I am striving for.

It interrupts my soul's intense devotions,
Some hope it strangles of divinest birth,
With a swift rush of violent emotions
Which link me to the earth.

It is as if two mortal foes contended
Within my bosom in a deadly strife,
One for the loftier aims for souls intended,
One for the earthly life.

And yet I know this very war within me,
Which brings out all my will-power and control,
This very conflict at the last shall win me
The loved and longed-for goal.

The very fire which seems sometimes so cruel
Is the white light, that shows me my own strength.
A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel,
It may become at length.

Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted,
I sometimes wonder if we shall not find
That not by deeds, but by what we've resisted,
Our places are assigned.

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

6th

I do not strive to make my sunsets gold
   Pave all the dim and distant realms of space.
I do not bid my crimson dawns unfold
   To lend the midnight a fictitious grace.
I break no law, for all God's laws are good,
Heart, hast thou heard? Yes, yes; and understood.
                                                                The Earth's Response.

7th

Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes
That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?
Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes
Before some light is lent it from on high.
What folly to think happiness gone by.
Let the hope set

 

LET THEM GO

Let the dream go. Are there not other dreams
In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight
That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams,
And shoot the shadows through and through with light?
What matters one lost vision of the night?
Let the dream go!

Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes
That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?
Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes
Before some light is lent it from on high.
What folly to think happiness gone by!
Let the hope set!

Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys,
Like the frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom?
Severe must be the winter that destroys
The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb.
What cares the Earth for her brief time of gloom?
Let the joy fade!

Let the love die. Are there not other loves
As beautiful and full of sweet unrest,
Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves?
They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast,
And thou shalt say of each, "Lo, this is best!"
Let the love die!

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

8th

Whatever helps you to the height
Of your best self and gives you light
To see God's truth, that thing is right.
                                                                Right.

9th

Of old men fought and deemed it right and just,
To-day the warrior fights because he must,
And in his secret soul feels shame because
He desecrates the higher manhood's laws.

 

THE POET'S THEME

"What is the explanation of the strange silence of American poets concerning America's triumphs on sea and land?"-- Literary Digest .

Why should the poet of these pregnant times
Be asked to sing of war's unholy crimes?

To laud and eulogize the trade which thrives
On horrid holocausts of human lives.

Man was a fighting beast when earth was young
And war the only theme when Homer sung.

'Twixt might and might the equal contest lay;
Not so the battles of our modern day.

Too often now the conquering hero struts
A Gulliver among the Liliputs.

Success no longer rests on skill or fate
But on the movements of a syndicate.

Of old men fought and deemed it right and just.
To-day the warrior fights because he must,

And in his secret soul feels shame because
He desecrates the higher manhood's laws.

Oh, there are worthier themes for poet's pen
In this great hour, than bloody deeds of men

Or triumphs of one hero (though he be
Deserving song for his humility).

The rights of many--not the worth of one--
The coming issues, not the battle done.

The awful opulence, and awful need--
The rise of brotherhood--the fall of greed.

The soul of man replete with God's own force,
The call "to heights" and not the cry, "to horse"--

Are there not better themes in this great age
For pen of poet, or for voice of sage

Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumb
Only that greater song in time may come.

When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for,
He will not sing of War.

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

10th

How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek--
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one belove'd face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble--
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble--
Thus doth Love speak

 

LOVE'S LANGUAGE

How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye--
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh--
Thus does Love speak.

How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barques, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift force--
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek--
The sudden silence and reserve when near--
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear--
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarme'd heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its god-like guest--
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek--
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendour,
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one belove'd face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble--
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss--
Thus does Love speak.

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

11th

What do the dead care for the tender token,
The love, the praise, the floral offerings?
But palpitating, living hearts are broken
For want of just these things

 

MOCKERY

Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living,
Who, God knows, find at best too much of gall;
And then with generous, open hands kneel, giving
Unto the dead our all?

Why do we pierce the warm heart's sin or sorrow,
With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers,
And when it cannot know, on some to-morrow,
Speak of its woe through tears?

What do the dead care for the tender token---
The love, the praise, the floral offerings?
But palpitating, living hearts are broken
For want of just these things.

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

12th

So work along in your chosen niche
With a steady purpose to nerve you;
Let nothing men say who pass your way
Relax your courage, or swerve you.
The idle will flock by the Temple of Art
For just the pleasure of gazing.
But climb to the top and do not stop,
Though they may not all be praising

 

NEVER MIND

Whatever your work and whatever its worth,
No matter how strong or clever,
Some one will sneer if you pause to hear
And scoff at your best endeavor.
For the target art has a broad expanse,
And wherever you chance to hit it,
Though close be your aim to the bullseye fame,
There are those who will never admit it.

Though the house applauds while the artist plays
And a smiling world adores him,
Somebody is there with an ennuied air
To say that the acting bores him.
For the tower of art has a lofty spire
With many a stair and landing,
And those who climb seem small oft time
To one at the bottom standing.

So work along in your chosen niche
With a steady purpose to nerve you;
Let nothing men say who pass your way
Relax your courage or swerve you.
The idle will flock by the Temple of Art
For just the pleasure of gazing,
But climb to the top and do not stop
Though they may not all be praising.

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

13th

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender,
That understands our troubles and our needs ,
Brings us more near to God than all the splendor
And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.
One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling
Doth bring me closer to the Infinite,
Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling
In blaze of gorgeous light.

 

NOTHING BUT STONES

I think I never passed so sad an hour,
Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging,
Each richly robed like some king's bidden guest.
"Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,"
I said, "and here find rest."

I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder,
It seemed to give me infinite relief.
I wept. Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder
I dried my tears: their gaze profaned my grief.
Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks and laces
Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me.
I could not read, in all those proud cold faces,
One thought of sympathy.

I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling,
Heard their responses like sweet waters roll.
But only the glorious organ's sacred pealing
Seemed gushing from a full and fervent soul.
I listened to the man of holy calling,
He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best;
Of man's corruption and of Adam's falling,
But naught that gave me rest.

Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding
Of soul with body, heart with heated brain.
Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding
And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain.
And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly,
So unassuming, and so gently kind,
And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy,
Settled upon my mind.

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender,
That understands our troubles and our needs,
Brings us more near to God than all the splendour
And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.
One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling,
Doth bring me closer to the Infinite,
Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling
In blaze of gorgeous light.

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

                                                             

 

14th

Out of the strife which woman
Is passing through to-day
A man that is more than human
Shall yet be born, I say.
A man in whose pure spirit
No dross of self shall lurk;
A man who is strong to cope with wrong--
A man who is proud to work

 

THE COMING MAN

Oh, not for the great departed,
Who formed our country's laws,
And not for the bravest-hearted
Who died in freedom's cause,
And not for some living hero
To whom all bend the knee,
My muse would raise her song of praise--
But for the man to be .

For out of the strife which woman
Is passing through to-day,
A man that is more than human
Shall yet be born, I say.
A man in whose pure spirit
No dross of self will lurk;
A man who is strong to cope with wrong,
A man who is proud to work.

A man with hope undaunted,
A man with godlike power,
Shall come when he most is wanted,
Shall come at the needed hour.
He shall silence the din and clamor
Of clan disputing with clan,
And toil's long fight with purse-proud might
Shall triumph through this man.

I know he is coming, coming,
To help, to guide, to save.
Though I hear no martial drumming,
And see no flags that wave.
But the great soul travail of woman,
And the bold free thought unfurled,
Are heralds that say he is on the way--
The coming man of the world.

Mourn not for vanished ages
With their great heroic men,
Who dwell in history's pages
And live in the poet's pen.
For the grandest times are before us,
And the world is yet to see
The noblest worth of this old earth
In the men that are to be.

Kingdom of love and How Salvator won by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey company [1902].

15th

In the long run all love is paid by love,
Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;
The great eternal government above
Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth.
Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;
So beautiful a thing was never lost
In the long run.

 

In the Long Run

In the long run fame finds the deserving man. The lucky wight may prosper for a day, But in good time true merit leads the van, And vain pretense, unnoticed, goes its way. There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate, But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait, In the long run. In the long run all goodly sorrows pays, There is no better thing than righteous pain! The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days, Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain. Unmeaning joys enervate in the end, But sorrow yields a glorious dividend-- In the long run. In the long run all hidden things are known; The eye of truth will penetrate the night, And good or ill, thy secret shall be known, However well 'tis guarded from the light. All the unspoken motives of the breast Are fathomed by the years and stand confest-- In the long run. In the long run all love is paid by love, Though undervalued by the hosts of earth; The great eternal Government above Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth. Give thy love freely; do not count the cost; So beautiful a thing was never lost In the long run.

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

16th

   Do not deceive yourself as you wander through the
garden of your mind, but when you find the ugly weed
jealousy, uproot it.  If you find it in others, uproot it
there.  Begin by realizing what it is, then by assert-
ing its antidote--universal love.
                                                               Jealousy.

17th

Its certain purpose, its serene repose,
Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes;
            This is my dream of Life.
                                                               I Dream.

18th

The rain must fall, ere the spring-time grass
Grows tender and green and sweet.
Through the pangs of travail a soul must pass
Ere a song is born complete

 

SINGERS

The sweetest songs that were ever sung,
And those that please the best,
Though sorrow, and grief, and tears were wrung
From some o'er-burdened breast.
Through the words breathe only of mirth, and bloom,
And the strains are the gladdest and lightest,
Remember that after a night of gloom,
The rays of the sun are brightest.

The rain must fall, ere the spring-time grass
Grows tender, and green, and sweet.
Through the pangs of travail a soul must pass,
Ere a song is born complete.
After a winter of storm, and snow,
Blossom the buds in our bowers:
After a season of tears and woe,
Blossom the poet's flowers.

There are few who give the poet a thought,
When they read the pleasing strain.
There are few who know that a poem is wrought
Through sorrow, and tears, and pain.
The merriest song, and the blithest lay,
And those that are sweetest and gladdest,
Are woven in gloomy and cheerless days,
When the poet's heart is the saddest.

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

19th

Love is the only thing that pays for birth,
Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God above
This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,
Pity the hearts that know--or know not--Love

 

WHAT LOVE IS

Love is the centre and circumference;
The cause and aim of all things---'tis the key
To joy and sorrow, and the recompense
For all the ills that have been, or may be.

Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin,
As sweet as clover-honey in its cell;
Love is the password whereby souls get in
To Heaven---the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell.

Love is the crown that glorifies; the curse
That brands and burdens; it is life and death;
It is the great law of the universe;
And nothing can exist without its breath.

Love is the impulse which directs the world,
And all things know it and obey its power.
Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled;
The bee that takes the pollen to the flower;

The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast
To fervent kisses of the amorous sun;---
Each but obeys creative Love's behest,
Which everywhere instinctively is done.

Love is the only thing that pays for birth,
Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God above,
This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,
Pity the hearts that know---or know not---Love!

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

20th

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for little; will alone is great

WILL

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
Whose slightest action or inaction serves
The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still,
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

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

21st

   It is an easy thing to formulate a creed.  But it is
often difficult to live up to it.  It is often easier to be
lenient toward the faults of human beings at large
than toward those of our own household.
                                                               Success Paper.

22nd

I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it

THE PAST

I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of Oriental splendour, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.

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

23rd

            .   .   .   Through love, not hate,
All that is grand in nature or in art
   Sprang into being.  He who would build sublime
   And lasting works, to stand the test of time,
Must inspiration draw from his full heart.
   And he who loveth widely, well and much,
   The secret holds of the true master touch.
                                                              Creation.

24th

If you want to be really unique, go along
And act as if Fate had not done you a wrong,
And declare you have had your deserts in this life

Forget me, dear; forget and cease to love me,
I am not worth one memory, kind or true,
Let silent, pale Oblivion spread above me
Her winding sheet, for I am dead to you.
Forget, forget.

Sin has resumed its interrupted story;
I am enslaved, who dreamed of being free.
Say for my soul, in life's dark purgatory,
One little prayer, then cease to think of me.
Forget, forget.

I ask you not to pity or to pardon;
I ask you to forget me. Tear my name
From out your heart; the wound will heal and harden.
Death does not dig so deep a grave as shame.
Forget, forget.

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

 

25th

And we walk together as two friends may,
   And laugh and drink God's wine,
Oh, a royal comrade any day
   I find this soul of mine.
                                                         Comrades.

26th

I feel the great immensity of life,
All little aims slip from me, and I reach
My yearning soul toward the Infinite

LIFE

I feel the great immensity of life.
All little aims slip from me, and I reach
My yearning soul toward the Infinite.

As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves
Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower
For lovers' secrets, or for children's sports,
Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,
And lets the eye behold it, limitless,
And full of winding mysteries of ways:
So now with life that reaches out before,
And borders on the unexplained Beyond
I see the stars above me, world on world:
I hear the awful language of all Space;
I feel the distant surging of great seas,
That hide the secrets of the Universe
In their eternal bosoms; and I know
That I am but an atom of the Whole.

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

 

27th

When I remember how I fought with fate
   And lived to learn misfortune's benefit,
Through present ills, I go my way elate
   And answer to Time's threats--"I will submit."
                                                               Submission.

 

28th

   All of success lies in you.  You need never ask any
man's aid or counsel if you set all your own forces to
work.  As well ask another to walk for you as to help
you to success.  Depend upon yourself!
                                                               Depend upon yourself.

 

29th

Who talks of evil conjures into shape
The formless thing and gives it life and scope.
This is the law: then let no word escape
That does not breathe of everlasting hope

WORDS

Words are great forces in the realm of life.
Be careful of their use. Who talks of hate,
Of poverty, of sickness, but sets rife
These very elements to mar his fate.

When love, health, happiness and plenty hear
Their names repeated over day by day,
They wing their way like answering fairies near,
Then nestle down within our homes to stay.

Who talks of evil conjures into shape
The formless thing and gives it life and scope.
This is the law: then let no word escape
That does not breathe of everlasting hope.

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

 

30th

For the cloudiest night has a hint of light
Somewhere in its shadow hiding;
It's better by far to hunt for a star
Than the spots on the sun abiding

AS YOU GO THROUGH LIFE

Don't look for the flaws as you go through life;
And even when you find them,
It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind,
And look for the virtue behind them;
For the cloudiest night has a hint of light
Somewhere in its shadows hiding:
It is better by far to hunt for a star,
Than the spots on the sun abiding.

The current of life runs ever away
To the bosom of God's great ocean.
Don't set your force 'gainst the river's course,
And think to alter its motion.
Don't waste a curse on the universe,
Remember, it lived before you:
Don't butt at the storm with your puny form,
But bend and let it go o'er you.

The world will never adjust itself
To suit your whims to the letter,
Some things must go wrong, your whole life long,
And the sooner you know it the better.
It is folly to fight with the Infinite,
And go under at last in the wrestle.
The wiser man shapes into God's plan,
As water shapes into a vessel.

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

 

31st

Have you missed in your aim?--well, the mark is still shining.
Did you faint in the race?--well, take breath for the next.
Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining.
Were you tempted and fell?--let it serve for a text

RESOLVE

As the dead year is clasped by a dead December,
So let your dead sins with your dead days lie.
A new life is yours, and a new hope. Remember,
We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.
Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, forgetting
Whatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong.
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting;
We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.

Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining.
Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next.
Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining.
Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a text.
As each year hurries by let it join that procession
Of skeleton shapes that march down to the Past,
While you take your place in the line of Progression,
With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast.

I tell you the future can hold no terrors
For any sad soul while the stars revolve,
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,
And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve.
It is never too late to begin rebuilding,
Though all into ruins your life seems hurled,
For see how the light of the New Year is gilding
The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.

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

 

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