Around the Year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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If you pause at the City of Trouble
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient; the train will move onward,
And rush down the track of the years.
Whatever the place is you seek for,
Whatever your aim or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing
To the beautiful City of Rest.
LIFE'S JOURNEY
As we speed out of youth's sunny station
The track seems to shine in the light,
But it suddenly shoots over chasms
Or sinks into tunnels of night.
And the hearts that were brave in the morning
Are filled with repining and fears,
As they pause at the City of Sorrow
Or pass through the Valley of Tears.
But the road of this perilous journey
The hand of the Master has made;
With all its discomforts and dangers,
We need not be sad or afraid.
Paths leading from light into darkness,
Ways plunging from gloom to despair,
Wind out through the tunnels of midnight
To fields that are blooming and fair.
Though the rocks and the shadows surround us,
Though we catch not one gleam of the day,
Above us fair cities are laughing,
And dipping white feet in some bay.
And always, eternal, for ever,
Down over the hills in the west,
The last final end of our journey,
There lies the great Station of Rest.
'Tis the Grand Central point of all railways,
All roads unite here when they end;
'Tis the final resort of all tourists,
All rival lines meet here and blend.
All tickets, all seasons, all passes,
If stolen or begged for or bought,
On whatever road or division,
Will bring you at last to this spot.
If you pause at the City of Trouble,
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient, the train will move onward,
And rush down the track of the years.
Whatever the place is you seek for,
Whatever your game or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing
To the beautiful City of Rest.
You shall store all your baggage of worries,
You shall feel perfect peace in this realm,
You shall sail with old friends on fair waters,
With joy and delight at the helm.
You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens
With those who have loved you the best,
And the hopes that were lost in life's journey
You shall find in the City of Rest.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
1st
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 days in June
Are better by far to remember
Than those when the world gets out of tune
In the cold, bleak winds of November
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
2nd
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,
I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.
Though sinewy Fate deals her most skillful blow,
I do not waste the gall now of my tears,
But feed my pride upon its bitter, while
I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.
WINTER RAIN
Falling upon the frozen world last night,
I heard the slow beat of the winter Rain--
Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain;
The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might,
Far better had the fixedness of white
And uncomplaining snows--which make no sign,
But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine--
Concealed its sorrows from all human sight.
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,
I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.
Though sinewy Fate deals her most skillful blow,
I do not waste the gall now of my tears,
But feed my pride upon its bitter, while
I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.
Maurine and Other Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : W.B. Conkey, c1888.
3rd
This is the message as it comes to me,
Do well the task thy Maker set for thee,
The gods make room upon the heights sublime
Only for those who have the will to climb.
The Way.
4th
We must keep moving with the world, or stand still
and solitary
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
Tho' all unrecognized in halls of fame,
Let this be said by those who speak my name:
"No mountain height she scaled on daring wings
But she was true and kind in little things."
Greatness.
6th
I feel the string vibrations of the earth,
I sense the coming of an hour sublime,
And bless the star that watched above my birth
And let me live in this important time
TO-DAY
I love this age of energy and force,
Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour;
Emerging from the all-creative source,
Supreme with promise, imminent with power.
The strident whistle and the clanging bell,
The noise of gongs, the rush of motored things
Are but the prophet voices which foretell
A time when thought may use unfettered wings.
Too long the drudgery of earth has been
A barrier 'twixt man and his own mind.
Remove the stone, and lo! the Christ within;
For He is there, and who so seeks shall find.
The Great Inventor is the Modern Priest.
He paves the pathway to a higher goal.
Once from the grind of endless toil released
Man will explore the kingdom of his soul.
And all this restless rush, this strain and strife,
This noise and glare is but the fanfarade
That ushers in the more majestic life
Where faith shall walk with science, unafraid.
I feel the strong vibrations of the earth,
I sense the coming of an hour sublime,
And bless the star that watched above my birth
And let me live in this important time.
Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1911.
7th
No man shall place a limit in thy strength;
Such triumphs as no mortal ever gained
May yet be thine if thou wilt but believe
In thy Creator and thyself.
Achievement.
8th
Whatever has been is a finished sum,
Whatever will be, why, let it come.
To-day is mine. And so you see
I have the past and the yet-to-be;
For to-day is the future of yesterday
And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may
WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE
Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust.
Of titles and honors and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;
Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished with nothing to show.
"I loathe the present"--said Was, with a groan.
"I live in pleasures that I have known."
The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty Was,
And gazed far off into misty space
With a wrapt expression upon her face.
"Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,
Such glory, such honor," said Yet-to-be.
"No one dreamed, in the vast Has Been
Of such successes as I shall win.
The past, the present, why what are they?
I live for the joy of a future day."
Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress,
Spoke up with a laugh, "I must confess
I find to-day so pleasant," she said
"I never look back, and seldom ahead.
What ever has been, is a finished sum.
What ever will be, why let it come.
To-day is mine. And so you see
I have the past and the yet-to-be;
For to-day is the future of yesterday,
And the past of to-morrow. I live while may,
And I think the secret of pleasure is this,
And this alone," said practical Is.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906
9th
. . . He
Whose heart is full of tenderness and truth,
Who loves mankind more than he loves himself,
And cannot find room in his heart for hate,
May be another Christ
My Creed.
I am asked by a correspondent to give my "relig-
ious denomination," my "political party," and
my "school of ethics."
My creed is, Do as you would be done by every
hour of every day of every week of every year.
This includes our relations with home, society, and
the masses of people encountered in the daily walks
of life.
The simplicity of this creed renders it extremely
difficult to follow. One which requires devotion to
churches and forms of worship once or twice a week
is much easier.
To my idea, God is the essence and manifestation
of love. I fear wrong thinking and wrong doing
because it hinders my growth toward the divine
standard, and not because I think God will be angry or
revengeful if I err. I cannot conceive of any angry
God. He seems to me infinite patience, pity, and
love for all created things.
I believe the spirit of man has always existed and
always will exist; that it passed through innumer-
able forms and phases of life, and that which it
leaves undone in one incarnation must be accom-
plished in another.
I believe in the laws of cause and effect, and that
each soul must work out its own destiny; that guar-
dian angels of unseen beings in a more advanced
state of existence endeavor to aid and help us
through this world. They are messengers of the
Master.
I believe in the power of prayer and assertion, and
in the strength of spirit to dominate matter and
circumstance.
My religion teaches me that it is demanded of us
to be of constant assistance to one another in small
ways, but that it is wrong to assume another's
entire burden or to attempt to take all difficulties
from his path. That interferes with his develop-
ment. It is for us to cheer, stimulate, and encourage,
but not to do the work given to another to perform.
I believe that every act of yours and mine affects
all of humanity. There is no such thing as a sepa-
rate life. We are all one. If you send out thoughts
of despondency, hatred and envy, if you plan
revenge or suicide, you are interfering with the
harmony of the universe, besides inviting certain
misfortunes to yourself. If you think love, hope, and
helpfulness, you are aiding the cause of universal
happiness and success.
Thoughts are things, full of electric force, and
they go forth and produce their own kind.
I believe that God is infinite wisdom, and that
evil is only blind ignorance.
So occupied have I been all my life trying to live
up to my creed, that I have never found time to
decide upon a political party or school of ethics.
I do not understand politics, and, like many other
ignorant people, I, in this instance, have small
respect for the thing I fail to understand.
But I believe in co-operative methods of business
and in the public ownership of large industries.
I have not the kind of brain which formulates the
plans for such results, but I have the foresight which
sees their certain approach. THE CREED Whoever was begotten by pure love
And came desired and welcomed into life,
Is of immaculate conception. He
Whose heart is full of tenderness and truth,
Who loves mankind more than he loves himself,
And cannot find room in his heart for hate,
May be another Christ. We all may be
The Saviors of the world if we believe
In the divinity which dwells in us
And worship it, and nail our grosser selves,
Our tempers, greeds, and unworthy aims
Upon the cross. Who giveth love to all,
Pays kindness for unkindness, smiles for frowns,
And lends new courage to each fainting heart
And strengthens hope and scatters joy abroad.
Every-day thoughts in prose and verse. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: W. B. Conkey Company, 1901
10th
The old year may die, and a new year be born
That is bleaker and colder;
But it can not dismay us; we dare it, we scorn,
For love makes us bolder.
Ah, Robin! Sing loud on your far distant lea,
Thou friend in fair weather;
But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee,
By two warm hearts together
BLEAK WEATHER
Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew
The white snows are falling;
And all through the woods where I wandered with you
The loud winds are calling;
And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,
'Neath the oak you remember,
O'er hilltop and forest has followed the June
And left us December.
He has left like a friend who is true in the sun
And false in the shadows;
He has found new delights in the land where he's gone,
Greener woodlands and meadows.
Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea,
Let it drift on the heather;
We can sing through it all; I have you, you have me,
And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die and a new year be born
That is bleaker and colder:
It cannot dismay us: we dare it, we scorn,
For our love makes us bolder.
Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea,
You friend in fair weather!
But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee
By two warm hearts together.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
11th
We do not always win the race
By only running right.
We have to tread the mountain's base
Before we reach its height
LIFE
All in the dark we grope along,
And if we go amiss
We learn at least which path is wrong,
And there is gain in this.
We do not always win the race.
By only running right,
We have to tread the mountain's base
Before we reach its height.
The Christs alone no errors made;
So often had they trod
The paths that lead through light and shade,
They had become as God.
As Krishna, Buddha, Christ again,
They passed along the way,
And left those mighty truths which men
But dimly grasp to-day.
But he who loves himself the last
And knows the use of pain,
Though strewn with errors all his past,
He surely shall attain.
Some souls there are that needs must taste
Of wrong, ere choosing right;
We should not call those years a waste
Which led us to the light.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
12th
Who runs may read this truth, I say;
Sin travels in a rumbling car,
While virtue soars on like a star--
The world grows better every day
THE WORLD
With noiseless steps good goes its way;
The earth shakes under evil's tread.
We hear the uproar, and 'tis said,
The world grows wicked every day.
It is not true. With quiet feet,
In silence, Virtue sows her seeds;
While Sin goes shouting out his deeds,
And echoes listen and repeat.
But surely as the old world moves,
And circles round the shining sun,
So surely does God's purpose run,
And all the human race improves.
Despite bold evil's noise and stir,
Truth's golden harvests ripen fast;
The Present far outshines the Past;
Men's thoughts are higher than they were.
Who runs may read this truth, I say:
Sin travels in a rumbling car,
While Virtue soars on like a star---
The world grows better every day.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
13th
Does some great sorrow mar your life to-day?
Absorb the thought, this too shall pass away
THIS TOO SHALL PASS AWAY
A mighty monarch in the days of old
Made offer of high honour, wealth and gold,
To one who should produce in form concise
A motto for his guidance, terse yet wise---
A precept, soothing in his hours forlorn,
Yet one that in his prosperous days would warn.
Many the maxims sent the king, men say.
The one he chose: " This too shall pass away ."
Oh, jewel sentence from the mine of truth!
What riches it contains for age or youth.
No stately epic, measured and sublime,
So comforts, or so counsels, for all time
As these few words. Go write them on your heart
And make them of your daily life a part.
Has some misfortune fallen to your lot?
This too will pass away--absorb the thought.
And wait; your waiting will not be in vain,
Time gilds with gold the iron links of pain.
The dark to-day leads into light to-morrow;
There is no endless joy, no endless sorrow.
Are you upon earth's heights? No cloud in view?
Go read your motto once again: This too
Shall pass away; fame, glory, place and power,
They are but little baubles of the hour,
Flung by the ruthless years down in the dust.
Take warning and be worthy of God's trust.
Use well your prowess while it lasts; leave bloom,
Not blight, to mark your footprints to the tomb.
The truest greatness lies in being kind,
The truest wisdom in a happy mind.
He who desponds, his Maker's judgment mocks;
The gloomy Christian is a paradox.
Only the sunny soul respects its God.
Since life is short we need to make it broad;
Since life is brief we need to make it bright.
Then keep the old king's motto well in sight,
And let its meaning permeate each day.
Whatever comes, This too shall pass away .
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
14th
Cease wondering why you came.
Stop looking for faults and flaws.
Rise up to-day in your pride and say:
"I am part of the First Great Cause!
However full the world,
There is room for an earnest man;
It had need of me or I would not be,
I am here to strengthen the plan."
I AM
I know not whence I came,
I know not whither I go;
But the fact stands clear that I am here
In this world of pleasure and woe.
And out of the mist and murk
Another truth shines plain--
It is my power each day and hour
To add to its joy or its pain.
I know that the earth exists,
It is none of my business why;
I cannot find out what it's all about,
I would but waste time to try.
My life is a brief, brief thing,
I am here for a little space,
And while I stay I would like, if I may,
To brighten and better the place.
The trouble, I think, with us all
Is the lack of a high conceit.
If each man thought he was sent to this spot
To make it a bit more sweet,
How soon we could gladden the world,
How easily right all wrong,
If nobody shirked, and each one worked
To help his fellows along.
Cease wondering why you came--
Stop looking for faults and flaws.
Rise up to-day in your pride and say,
"I am part of the First Great Cause!
However full the world,
There is room for an earnest man.
It had need of me or I would not be--
I am here to strengthen the plan."
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
15th
The grandest heroes who have graced the earth
Were love-filled souls who did not seek the fray,
But chose the safe, hard, high and lonely way
Of selfless labor for a suffering world
A PLEA TO PEACE
When mighty issues loom before us, all
The petty great men of the day seem small,
Like pigmies standing in a blaze of light
Before some grim majestic mountain height.
War, with its bloody and impartial hand,
Reveals the hidden weakness of a land,
Uncrowns the heroes trusting Peace has made
Of men whose honor is a thing of trade.
And turns the searchlight full on many a place
Where proud conventions long have masked disgrace.
Oh, lovely Peace! as thou art fair be wise.
Demand great men and great men shall arise
To do thy bidding. Even as warriors come,
Swift at the call of bugle and of drum,
So at the voice of Peace, imperative
As bugle's call, shall heroes spring to live
For country and for thee. In every land,
In every age, men are what times demand.
Demand the best, oh, Peace, and teach thy sons
They need not rush in front of death-charged guns
With murder in their hearts to prove their worth.
The grandest heroes who have graced the earth
Were love-filled souls who did not seek the fray,
But chose the safe, hard, high and lonely way
Of selfless labor for a suffering world.
Beneath our glorious flag again unfurled
In victory such heroes wait to be
Called into bloodless action, Peace, by thee.
Be thou insistent in thy stern demand,
And wise, great men shall rise up in the land.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
16th
If dark the deepening shadows be that blend
With life's pale sunlight when the sun dips low,
Though joy speeds by and sorrow's steps are slow,
I shall be given courage to the end
UNTO THE END
I know not where to-morrow's paths may wend,
Nor what the future holds; but this I know,
Whichever way my feet are forced to go,
I shall be given courage to the end.
Though God that awful gift of His may send
We call long life, where headstones in a row
Hide all of happiness, yet be it so:
I shall be given courage to the end.
If dark the deepening shadows be, that blend
With life's pale sunlight when the sun dips low,
Though joy speeds by and sorrow's steps are slow,
I shall be given courage to the end.
I do not question what the years portend--
Or good or ill, whatever wind may blow;
It is enough, enough for me to know
I shall be given courage to the end.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
17th
Use all your hidden forces. Do not miss
The purpose of this life, and do not wait
For circumstance to mould or change your fate.
In your own self lies Destiny
ATTAINMENT
Use all your hidden forces. Do not miss
The purpose of this life, and do not wait
For circumstance to mould or change your fate.
In your own self lies Destiny. Let this
Vast truth cast out all fear, all prejudice,
All hesitation. Know that you are great,
Great with divinity. So dominate
Environment, and enter into bliss.
Love largely and hate nothing. Hold no aim
That does not chord with universal good.
Hear what the voices of the Silence say,
All joys are yours if you put forth your claim.
Once let the spiritual laws be understood,
Material things must answer and obey.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
18th
He who harbors hate one hour
Saps the soul of Peace and Power.
He who will not hate his foe
Need not dread life's hardest blow
FATE AND I
Wise men tell me thou, O Fate,
Art invincible and great.
Well, I own thy prowess; still
Dare I flount thee, with my will.
Thou canst shatter in a span
All the earthly pride of man.
Outward things thou canst control
But stand back--I rule my soul!
Death? 'Tis such a little thing--
Scarcely worth the mentioning.
What has death to do with me,
Save to set my spirit free?
Something in me dwells, O Fate,
That can rise and dominate.
Loss, and sorrow, and disaster,
How, then, Fate, art thou my master?
In the great primeval morn
My immortal will was born.
Part of that stupendous Cause
Which conceived the Solar Laws.
Lit the suns and filled the seas,
Royalest of pedigrees.
That great Cause was Love, the Source,
Who most loves has most of Force.
He who harbors hate one hour
Saps the soul of Peace and Power.
He who will not hate his foe
Need not dread life's hardest blow.
In the realm of brotherhood
Wishing no man aught but good.
Naught but good can come to me.
This is love's supreme decree.
Since I bar my door to hate,
What have I to fear, O Fate?
Since I fear not--Fate, I vow,
I the ruler am, not thou!
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
19th
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
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.
20th
Over and over and over
These truths I will weave in song,
That God's great plan needs you and me,
That will is greater than destiny,
And that Love moves the world alon
REPETITION
Over and over and over
These truths I will weave in song,
That God's great plan needs you and me,
That will is greater than destiny
And that love moves the world along.
However mankind may doubt it,
It shall listen and hear my creed,
That God may ever be found within---
That the worship of self is the only sin,
And the only devil is greed.
Over and over and over
These truths I will say and sing,
That love is mightier far than hate
That a man's own thought is a man's own fate,
And that life is a goodly thing.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
21st
If you are sighing for a lofty work,
If great ambitions dominate your mind,
Just watch yourself and see you do not shirk
The common little ways of being kind
MISSION
If you are sighing for a lofty work,
If great ambitions dominate your mind,
Just watch yourself and see you do not shirk
The common little ways of being kind.
If you are dreaming of a future goal,
When crowned with glory men shall own your power,
Be careful that you let no struggling soul
Go by unaided in the present hour.
If you are moved to pity for the earth,
And long to aid it, do not look so high,
You pass some poor, dumb creature faint with thirst.
All life is equal in the eternal eye.
If you would help to make the wrong things right,
Begin at home: there lies a lifetime's toil.
Weed your own garden fair for all men's sight,
Before you plan to till another's soil.
God chooses his own leaders in the world,
And from the rest he asks but willing hands.
As mighty mountains into place are hurled,
While patient tides may only shape the sands.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
22nd
For life is a poem to leisurely read,
And the joy of the journey lies not in its speed.
Oh, vain his achievement, and petty his pride
Who travels alone without Love at his side
THE TRAVELER
Reply to Rudyard Kipling's "He travels the fastest who travels alone."
Who travels alone with his eyes on the heights,
Tho' he laughs in the day time oft weeps in the nights.
For courage goes down at the set of the sun
When the toil of the journey is all borne by one.
He speeds but to grief tho' full gayly he ride
Who travels alone without love at his side.
Who travels alone without lover or friend
But hurries from nothing, to naught at the end.
Tho' great be his winnings and high be his goal
He is bankrupt in wisdom and beggared in soul.
Life's one gift of value to him is denied
Who travels alone without love at his side.
It is easy enough in this world to make haste
If one live for that purpose---but think of the waste.
For life is a poem to leisurely read
And the joy of the journey lies not in its speed.
Oh, vain his achievement, and petty his pride
Who travels alone without love at his side.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
23rd
Be worthy your work if you love it,
The king should be fit for the crown;
Stand high as your art, or above it,
And make us look up and not down.
The Actor.
24th
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old.
OPTIMISM
I'm no reformer; for I see more light
Than darkness in the world; mine eyes are quick
To catch the first dim radiance of the dawn,
And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm.
The fragrance and the beauty of the rose
Delight me so, slight thought I give its thorn;
And the sweet music of the lark's clear song
Stays longer with me than the night hawk's cry.
And e'en in this great throe of pain called Life,
I find a rapture linked with each despair,
Well worth the price of Anguish. I detect
More good than evil in humanity.
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
25th
The restless passion rising into peace;
The growing beauty of two paths that blend
Into one perfect way. The glorious faith
That feels no fear of life's expiring lease
SO MANY WAYS I.
Earth has so many ways of being fair:
Its sweet young Spring, its Summer clothed in light,
Its regal Autumn trailing into sight
As Summer wafts her last kiss on the air.
Bold virile Winter with the wind-blown hair
And the broad beauty of a world in white.
Mysterious dawn, high noon, and pensive night,
And over all God's great worlds watching there.
The voices of the birds at break of day;
The smell of young buds bursting on the tree;
The soft suggested promises of bliss,
Uttered by every subtle voice of May;
And the strange wonder of the mighty sea,
Lifting its cheek to take the full moon's kiss.
Love has so many ways of being sweet.
The timorous rose-hued dawning of its reign
Before the senses waken; that dear pain
Of mingled doubt and certainty: the fleet
First moment when the clasped hands meet
In wordless eloquence; the loss and gain
When the strong billows from the deeper main
Submerge the valleys of the incomplete.
The restless passion rising into peace;
The growing beauty of two paths that blend
Into one perfect way. The glorious faith
That feels no fear of life's expiring lease.
And that majestic victory at the end
When love, unconquered, triumphs over death.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
26th
And from the discontent of man
The world's best progress springs.
Then feed the flame (from God it came),
Until you mount on wings
DISCONTENT
The splendid discontent of God
With chaos made the world.
Set suns in place, and filled all space
With stars that shone and whirled.
If apes had been content with tails,
No thing of higher shape
Had come to birth: the king of earth
To-day would be an ape.
And from the discontent of man
The world's best progress springs.
Then feed the flame (from God it came),
Until you mount on wings.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
27th
The cure for the pessimist lies in good deeds.
Who toils for another forgets his own needs.
The short-sighted minister preached at Bay Bend
His long-winded sermon quite through to the end,
Unmindful there sat in the Somerville pew
A stranger whose pale handsome countenance drew
All eyes from his own reverend self; nor suspected
What Ruth and her brother too plainly detected
That the stranger was bored.
"Though his gaze never stirred
From the face of the preacher, his heart has not heard,"
Ruth said to herself; and her soft mother-eye
Was fixed on his face with a look like a sigh
In its tremulous depths, as they rose to depart.
Then suddenly Roger, alert, seemed to start
And his dull, listless glance changed to one of surprise
And of pleasure. Ruth saw that the goal of his eyes
Was her friend Mabel Lee in the vestibule; fair
As a saint that is pictured with sun tangled hair
And orbs like the skies in October. She smiled,
And the saint disappeared in the innocent child
With an unconscious dower of beauty and youth
She paused in the vestibule waiting for Ruth
And seemed not to notice the warm eager gaze
Of two men fixed upon her in different ways.
One, the look which souls lift to a being above,
The other a look of unreasoning love
Born of fancy and destined to grow in an hour
To a full fledged emotion of mastering power.
She spoke, and her voice disappointed the ear;
It lacked some deep chords that the heart hoped to hear.
It was sweet, but not vibrant; it came from the throat,
And one listened in vain for a full chested note.
While something at times like a petulant sound
Seemed in strange disaccord with the peace so profound
Of the eyes and the brow.
Though our sight is deceived
The ear is an organ that may be believed.
The faces of people are trained to conceal,
But their unruly voices are prone to reveal
What lies deep in their natures; a voice rarely lies,
But Mabel Lee's voice told one tale, while her eyes
Told another. Large, liquid, and peaceful as lakes
Where the azure dawn rests, ere the loud world awakes,
Were the beautiful eyes of the maiden. "A saint,
Without mortal blemish or weak human taint,"
Said Maurice to himself. To himself Roger said:
"The touch of her soft little hands on my head
Would convert me. What peace for a world weary breast
To just sit by her side and be soothed into rest."
Daring thoughts for a stranger. Maurice, who had known
Mabel Lee as a child, to himself would not own
Such bold longings as those were. He held her to be
Too sacred for even a thought that made free.
And the voice in his bosom was silenced and hushed
Lest the bloom from her soul by his words should be brushed.
There are men to whom love is religion; but woman
Is far better pleased with a homage more human.
Though she may not be able to love in like fashion,
She wants to be wooed with both ardor and passion.
Had Mabel Lee read Roger's thoughts of her, bold
Though they were, they had flattered and pleased her, I hold.
The stranger was duly presented.
Roger:
Miss Lee,
I am sure, has no least recollection of me,
But the pleasure is mine to have looked on her face
Once before this.
Mabel:
Indeed? May I ask where?
Roger:
The place
Was the train, and the time yesterday.
Mabel:
"Then I came
From my shopping excursion in town by the same
Fast express which brought you? Had I known that the friend
Of my friends, was so near me en route for Bay Bend,
I had waived all conventions and asked him to take
One-half of my parcels for sweet pity's sake.
Roger:
You sadden me sorely. As long as I live
I shall mourn the great pleasure chance chose not to give.
Maurice:
Take courage, mon ami. Our fair friend, Miss Lee,
Fills her time quite as full of sweet works as the bee;
Like the bee, too, she drives out the drones from her hive.
You must toil in her cause, in her favor to thrive.
Roger:
She need but command me. To wait upon beauty
And goodness combined makes a pleasure of duty.
Maurice:
Who serves Mabel Lee serves all Righteousness too.
Pray, then, that she gives you some labor to do.
The cure for the pessimist lies in good deeds.
Who toils for another forgets his own needs,
And mischief and misery never attend
On the man who is occupied fully.
Ruth:
Our friend
Has the town on her shoulders. Whatever may be
The cause that is needy, we look to Miss Lee.
Have you gold? She will make you disgorge it ere long;
Are you poor? Well, perchance you can dance--sing a song--
Make a speech--tell a story, or plan a charade.
Whatever you have, gold or wits, sir, must aid
In her numerous charities.
Mabel:
Riches and brain
Are but loans from the Master. He meant them, 'tis plain,
To be used in His service; and people are kind,
When once you can set them to thinking. I find
It is lack of perception, not lack of good heart
Which makes the world selfish in seeming. My part
Is to call the attention of Plenty to need,
And to bid Pleasure pause for a moment and heed
The woes and the burdens of Labor.
Roger:
One plea
From the rosy and eloquent lips of Miss Lee
Would make Avarice pour out his coffers of gold
At her feet, I should fancy; would soften the cold,
Selfish heart of the world to compassionate sighs,
And bring tears of pity to vain Pleasure's eyes.
As the sunset a color on lily leaves throws,
The words and the glances of Roger Montrose
O'er the listener's cheeks sent a pink tinted wave;
While Maurice seemed disturbed, and his sister grew grave.
The false chink of flattery's coin smites the ear
With an unpleasant ring when the heart is sincere.
Yet the man whose mind pockets are filled with this ore,
Though empty his brain cells, is never a bore
To the opposite sex.
While Maurice knew of old
Roger's wealth in that coin that does duty for gold
In Society dealings, it hurt him to see
The cheap metal offered to sweet Mabel Lee.
(Yet, perchance, the hurt came, not so much that 'twas offered,
As in seeing her take, with a smile, what was proffered.)
They had walked, two by two, down the elm shaded street,
Which led to a cottage, vine hidden, and sweet
With the breath of the roses that covered it, where
Mabel paused in the gateway; a picture most fair.
"I would ask you to enter," she said, "ere you pass,
But in just twenty minutes my Sunday-school class
Claims my time and attention; and later I meet
A Committee on Plans for the boys of the street.
We seek to devise for these pupils in crime
Right methods of thought and wise uses of time.
Roger:
I am but a vagrant, untutored and wild,
May I join your street class, and be taught like a child?
Mabel:
If you come I will carefully study your case.
Maurice:
I must go along, too, just to keep him in place.
Mabel:
Then you think him unruly?
Maurice:
Decidedly so.
Roger:
I was, but am changed since one-half hour ago.
Mabel:
The change is too sudden to be of much worth;
The deepest convictions are slowest of birth.
Conversion, I hold, to be earnest and lasting,
Begins with repentance and praying and fasting,
And (begging your pardon for such a bold speech),
You seem, sir, a stranger to all and to each
Of these ways of salvation.
Roger:
Since yesterday, miss,
When, unseen, I first saw you (believe me in this),
I have deeply repented my sins of the past.
To-night I will pray, and to-morrow will fast--
Or, make it next week, when my shore appetite
May be somewhat subdued in its ravenous might.
Maurice:
That's the way of the orthodox sinner! He waits
Until time or indulgence or misery sates
All his appetites, then his repentance begins,
When his sins cease to please, then he gives up his sins
And grows pious. Now prove you are morally brave
By actually giving up something you crave!
We have fricasseed chicken and strawberry cake
For our dinner to-day.
Roger:
For dear principle's sake
I could easily do what you ask, were it not
Most unkind to Miss Ruth, who gave labor and thought
To that menu, preparing it quite to my taste.
Ruth:
But the thought and the dinner will both go to waste,
If we linger here longer; and Mabel, I see,
Is impatient to go to her duties.
Roger:
The bee
Is reluctant to turn from the lily although
The lily may obviously wish he would go
And leave her to muse in the sunlight alone.
Yet when the rose calls him, his sorrow, I own,
Has its recompense. So from delight to delight
I fly with my wings honeyladen.
Good night
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
28th
O!h To love, not to preach,
Is a woman's true method of helping mankind.
The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind.
As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod,
So the patience of love brings a soul to its God
VII. Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere,
But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tear
Came to soften the hard, stony look in the eye
Of her husband; she heard no complaint and no sigh
From his lips, but he turned with impatience whenever
She spoke of religion, or made one endeavor
To lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sod
Where the little form slept, to its spirit with God.
Long hours by that grave, Roger passed, and alone.
The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own,
But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in grief
Prayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief.
She flung herself into good works more and more,
And saw not that the look which her husband's face wore
Was the look of a man starved for love. In the mold
Of a nun she was fashioned, chaste, passionless, cold.
(Such women sin more when they take marriage ties
Than the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies
In the arms of the man whom she worships. The child
Not conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled.
Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows,
God sees "illegitimate" stamped on the brows
Of her offspring. Love only can legalize birth
In His eyes--all the rest is but spawn of the earth.)
Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and pleased
By the passion of Roger; his wild wooing teased
That inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit,
Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit.
His love fanned her love for herself to a glow;
She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man so.
That was all. She had nothing to give in return.
One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn;
And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her soul
Was not there to be wakened. He stood at his goal
As the Arctic explorer may finally stand,
To see all about him an ice prisoned land,
White, beautiful, useless.
Some women are chaste,
Like the snows which envelop the bleak and waste
Of the desert; once melted, alas! what remains
But the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains?
The flora of Cupid will never be found,
However he toil there, to thrive in such ground.
Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteem
By her neighbors; I think neighbors everywhere deem
Such women to be all that's noble. They sighed
When they spoke of her husband; they told how she tried
To convert him, and how they had thought for a season
His mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no reason,
He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealous
Of Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealous
In duty to others.
The death of his child
Only hardened his heart against God. He grew wild,
Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city,
Neglecting his saint of a wife--such a pity.
It was true. Our friends keep a sharp eye on our deeds
But the fine interlining of causes--who heeds?
The long list of heartaches which lead to rash acts
Would bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts.
There are women so terribly free from all evil,
They discourage a man, and he goes to the devil.
There are people whose virtues result in appalling,
And they prove a great aid to his majesty's calling.
Roger's wife rendered goodness so dreary and cold,
His tendril-like will lost its poor little hold
On the new better life he was longing to reach,
And slipped back to the dust. Oh! to love, not to preach.
Is a woman's true method of helping mankind.
The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind.
As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod,
So the patience of love brings a soul to its God.
But when love is lacking, the devil is sure
To stand in the pathway with some sort of lure.
Roger turned to the world for distraction. The world
Smiled a welcome, and then like an octopus curled
All its tentacles 'round him, and dragged him away
Into deep, troubled waters.
One late summer day
He awoke with a headache, which will not surprise,
When you know that his bedtime had been at sunrise,
And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned "Pier,"
Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window the clear
Yellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bed
And proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his head
Seemed as large and as light as an air filled balloon
While his limbs were like lead.
In the glare of the noon,
The follies of night show their makeup, and seem
Like hideous monsters evoked by some dream.
The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast
And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give rest
To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine
On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine.
Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth
Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth."
The beach swarmed with bathers--to be more exact,
Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact,
Many beautiful women bathed but in the light
Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight,
Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching arms
They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charms
And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour,
The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flower
With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath,
Roger paused in confusion, because in his path
Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent
On the form of a woman who leisurely went
From her bathing house down to the beach. "There she goes,"
Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes
With her whole ample weight. "What, the one with red hair?
Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare."
A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned,
Look! there is La Travers, the one with the red
Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here,
And at present the topic of talk at the Pier."
Roger followed their glances in time to behold
For a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold,
And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white.
Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight.
It was half an hour afterward, possibly more,
As Roger swam farther and farther from shore,
With new life in his limbs and new force in his brain,
That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain.
Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a wave
Shone a woman's white face. "Keep your courage; be brave;
I am coming," he shouted. "Turn over and float."
His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a boat
Through the billows. Six overhand strokes brought him close
To the woman, who lay like a wilted white rose
On the waves. "Now, be careful," he cried; "lay your hand
Well up on my shoulder; my arms, understand,
Must be free; do not touch them--please follow my wishes,
Unless you are anxious to fatten the fishes."
The woman obeyed him. "You need not fear me,"
She replied, "I am wholly at home in the sea.
I knew all the arts of the swimmer, I thought,
But confess I was frightened when suddenly caught
With a cramp in my knee at this distance from shore."
With slow even breast strokes the strong swimmer bore
His fair burden landward. She lay on the billows
As lightly as if she were resting on pillows
Of down. She relinquished herself to the sea
And the man, and was saved; though God knows both can be
False and fickle enough; yet resistance or strife,
On occasions like this, means the forfeit of life.
The throng of the bathers had scattered before
Roger carried his burden safe into the shore
And saw her emerge from the water, a place
Where most women lose every vestige of grace
Or of charm. But this mermaid seemed fairer than when
She had challenged the glances of women and men
As she went to her bath. Now her clinging silk suit
Revealed every line, from the throat to the foot,
Of her beautiful form. Her arms, in their splendor,
Gleamed white like wet marble. The round waist was slender,
And yet not too small. From the twin perfect crests
And the virginlike grace of her beautiful breasts
To the exquisite limbs and the curve of her thigh,
And the arch of her proud little instep, the eye
Drank in beauty. Her face was not beautiful; yet
The gaze lingered on it, for Eros had set
His seal on her features. The mouth full and weak,
The blue shadow drooping from eyelid to cheek
Like a stain of crushed grapes, and the pale, ardent skin,
All spoke of volcanic emotions within.
By her tip tilted nose and low brow, it was plain
To read how her impulses ruled o'er her brain.
She had given the chief role of life to her heart,
And her intellect played but a small minor part.
Her eyes were the color the sunlight reveals
When it pierces the soft, furry coat of young seals.
The thickly fringed lids seemed unwilling to rise,
But drooped, half concealing them; wonderful eyes,
Full of secrets and bodings of sorrow. As coarse
And as thick as the mane of a finely groomed horse
Was her bright mass of hair. The sea, with rough hands,
Had made free with the braids, and unloosened the strands
Till they hung in great clusters of curls to her knees.
Her voice, when she spoke, held the breadth and the breeze
Of the West in its tones; and the use of the R
Made the listener certain her home had been far
From New England. Long after she vanished from view
The eye and the ear seemed to sense her anew.
There was that in her voice and her presence which hung
In the air like a strain of a song which is sung
By a singer, and then sings itself the whole day,
And will not be silenced.
As birds flock away
From meadow to tree branch, now there and now here,
So, from beach to Casino, each day at the Pier
Flock the gay pleasure seekers. The balconies glow
With beauty and color. The belle and the beau
Promenade in the sunlight, or sit tete-a-tete,
While the chaperons gossip together. Bands play,
Glasses clink; and 'neath sheltering lace parasols
There are plans made for meeting at drives or at balls.
Roger sat at a table alone, with his glass
Of mint julep before him, and watched the crowd pass.
There were all sorts of people from all sorts of places.
He thought he liked best the fair Baltimore faces.
The South was the land of fair women, he mused,
Because they were indolent. Women who used
Mind or body too freely. Changed curves into angles,
For beauty forever with intellect wrangles.
The trend of the fair sex to-day must alarm
Every lover of feminine beauty and charm.
As he mused Roger watched with a keen interest
For a sight of his Undine. "All coiffured and drest,
With her wonderful body concealed, and her hair
Knotted up, well, I doubt if she seem even fair,"
He soliloquized. "Ah!" the word burst from his lips,
For he saw her approaching. She walked from the hips
With an undulous motion. As graceful and free
From all effort as waves swinging in from the sea
Were her movements. Her full molded figure seemed slight
In its close fitting gown of black cloth; and the white
Of her cheek seemed still whiter by contrast. Her clothes
Were tasteful and quiet; yet Roger Montrose
Knew in some subtle manner he could not express
('Tis an instinct men have in the matters of dress)
That they never were made in New York. By her hat
One can oft read a woman's whole character. That
Which our fair Undine wore was a thing of rich lace,
Flowers and ribbons like others one saw in the place,
Yet the width of the brim, or the twist of its bows,
Or the way it was worn made it different from those.
As it drooped o'er the eyes full of mystery there,
It seemed, all at once, both a menace and dare;
A menace to women, a dare to the men.
She bowed as she passed Roger's table; and then
Took a chair opposite, spread her shade of red silk,
Called a waiter and ordered a cup of hot milk,
Which she leisurely sipped. She seemed unaware
Of the curious eyes she attracted. Her air
Was of one quite at home, and entirely at ease
With herself, the sole person she studied to please.
She had been for three weeks at the Pier, and alone,
Without maid or escort, and nothing was known
Of her there, save the name which the register bore,
"Mrs. Travers, New York." Men were mad to learn more
But the women were distant. One can't, at such places,
Accept as credentials good figures or faces.
There was an unnameable something about
Mrs. Travers which filled other women with doubt
And all men with interest. Roger, blasé,
Disillusioned with life as he was, felt the sway
Of her strong personality, there as she sat
Looking out 'neath the rim of her coquettish hat
With dark eyes on the sea. Few people had power
To draw his gray thoughts from himself for an hour
As this woman had done; she was food for his mind,
And he sought by his inner perceptions to find
In what class she belonged. "An adventuress? No,
Though I fancy three-fourths of the women think so
And one-half of the men; but that role leaves a trace,
An expression, I fail to detect in her face.
Her past is not shadowed; my judgment would say
That her sins lie before her, and not far away.
She's a puzzle, I think, to herself; and grim Fate
Will aid her in solving the riddle too late.
Her soul dreams of happiness; but in her eyes
The sensuous foe to all happiness lies.
As the rain is drawn up by some moods of the sun,
Some natures draw trouble from life; her's is one."
She rose and passed by him again, and her gown
Brushed his knee. A light tremor went shivering down
His whole body. She left on the air as she went
A subtle suggestion of perfume; the scent
Which steals out of some fans, or old laces, and seems
Full of soft fragrant fancies and languorous dreams.
She haunted the mind, though she passed from the sight.
When Roger Montrose sought his pillow that night,
'Twas to dream of La Travers. He thought she became
A burning red rose, with each leaf like a flame.
He stooped down and plucked it, and woke with a start,
As it turned to an adder and struck at his heart.
The dream left its impress, as certain dreams should,
For, as warnings of evil, precursors of good,
They are sent to our souls o'er a mystical line,
Night messages, couched in a cipher divine.
Roger knew much of life, much of women, and knew
Even more of himself and his weaknesses. Few
Of us mortals look inward; our gaze is turned out
To watch what the rest of the world is about,
While the rest of the world watches us.
Roger's reason
And logic were clear. But his will played him treason.
If you looked at his hand, you would see it. Hands speak
More than faces. His thumb (the first phalanx) was weak,
Undeveloped; the second, firm jointed and long,
Which showed that the reasoning powers were strong,
But the will, from disuse, had grown feeble.
That morning
He looked on his dream in the light of a warning
And made sudden plans for departure. "To go
Is to fly from some folly," he said, "for I know
What salt air and dry wine, and the soft siren eyes
Of a woman, can do under midsummer skies
With a man who is wretched as I am. Unrest
Is a tramp, who goes picking the locks on one's breast
That a whole gang of vices may enter. A thirst
For strong drink and chance games, those twin comrades accursed,
Are already admitted. Oh Mabel, my wife,
Reach, reach out your arms, draw me into the life
That alone is worth living. I need you to-day,
Have pity, and love me, oh love me, I pray.
I will turn once again from the bad world to you.
Though false to myself, to my vows I am true."
When a soul strives to pull itself up out of sin
The devil tries harder to push it back in.
And the man who attempts to retrace the wrong track
Needs his God and his will to stand close at his back.
Through what are called accidents, Roger was late
At the train. Are not accidents servants of Fate?
The first coach was filled; he passed on to the second.
That, too, seemed complete, but a gentleman beckoned
And said, "There's a seat, sir; the third from the last
On your left." Roger thanked him and leisurely passed
Down the aisle, with his coat on his arm, to the place
Indicated. The seat held a lady, whose face
Was turned to the window. "Pray pardon me, miss"
(For he judged by her back she was youthful), "is this
Seat engaged?" As he spoke, the face turned in surprise,
And Roger looked into the long, languid eyes
Of La Travers. She smiled, moved her wraps from the seat,
And he sat down beside her. The same subtle, sweet
Breath of perfume exhaled from her presence, and made
The place seem a boudoir. The deep winey shade
'Neath her eyes had grown larger, as if she had wept
Or a late, lonely vigil with memory kept.
A man who has rescued a woman from danger
Or death, does not seem to her wholly a stranger
When next she encounters him; yet both essayed
To be formal and proper; and each of them made
The effort a failure. The jar of a train
At times holds a mesmeric spell for the brain
And a tense excitation for nerves; and the shriek
Of the engine compels one to lean near to speak
Or to list to his neighbor. Formality flies
With the smoke of the train and floats off to the skies.
Roger led his companion to talk; and the theme
Which he chose, was herself, her life story. The dream
Of the previous night was forgotten. The charm
Of the woman outweighed superstitious alarm.
When the sunlight began to play peek-a-boo
Through the tunnels, which told them the journey was through,
Roger looked at his time-piece; the train for Bay Bend
Left in just twenty minutes; but what a rude end
To the day's pleasant comradeship--rushing away
With a hurried good-bye! He decided to stay
Over night in the city. He was not expected
At home. Mrs. Travers was quite unprotected,
And almost a stranger in Gotham. He ought
To see her safe into her doorway, he thought.
At the doorway she gave him her hand, with a smile;
"I have known you," she said, "such a brief little while,
Yet you seem like a friend of long standing; I say
Good-bye with reluctance."
"Perhaps, then, I may
Call and see you to-morrow?" the words seemed to fall
Of themselves from his lips; words he longed to recall
When once uttered, for deep in his conscience he knew
That the one word for him to speak now, was adieu.
The lady's soft, cushion-like hand rested still
In his own, and the contact was pleasant. A thrill
From the finger tips quickened his pulses.
"You may
Call to-morrow at four." The soft hand slipped away
And left his palm lonely.
"The call must be brief,"
He said to himself, with a sense of relief,
As he ran down the steps, "for at five my train goes."
Yet the five o'clock train bore no Roger Montrose
From New York. Mrs. Travers had asked him to dine.
A tete-a-tete dinner with beauty and wine,
To stir the man's senses and deaden his brain.
(The devil keeps always good chefs in his train.)
It was ten when he rose for departure. The room
Seemed a garden of midsummer fragrance and bloom.
The lights with their soft rosy coverings made
A glow like late sunsets, in some tropic glade.
The world seemed afar, with its dullness and duty,
And life was a rapture of love and of beauty.
God knows how it happened; they never knew how.
He turned with a formal conventional bow,
And some well chosen words of politeness, to go.
Her mouth was a rose Love had dropped in the snow
Of her face. It smiled up to him, luscious and sweet.
In the tip of each finger he felt his heart beat,
Like five hearts all in one, as her hand touched his own.
She murmured "good-night," in a tremulous tone.
White, intense, through the soft golden mist which the wine
Had cast over his vision, he saw her face shine.
Her low lidded eyes held a lion-like glow.
You have seen sudden storms lash the ocean? You know
How the cyclone, unheralded, rises in wrath,
And leaves devastation and death in its path?
So swift, sudden passion may rise in its power,
And ruin and blight a whole life in an hour.
Two unanchored souls in its maelstrom were whirled,
Drawn down by love's undertow, lost to the world.
The dark, solemn billows of night shut them in.
Like corpses afloat on the ocean of sin
They must seem to their true, better selves, when again
The tide drifts them back to the notice of men
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
29th
Above the chant of priests, above
The blatant voice of braying doubt,
He hears the still small voice of Love
Which sends its simple message out
THE CREED TO BE
Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres,
And, like a blessing or a curse,
They thunder down the formless years,
And ring throughout the universe.
We build our futures, by the shape
Of our desires, and not by acts.
There is no pathway of escape;
No priest-made creeds can alter facts.
Salvation is not begged or bought;
Too long this selfish hope sufficed;
Too long man reeked with lawless thought,
And leaned upon a tortured Christ.
Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creeds
Are dropping from Religion's tree;
The world begins to know its needs,
And souls are crying to be free.
Free from the load of fear and grief,
Man fashioned in an ignorant age;
Free from the ache of unbelief
He fled to in rebellious rage.
No church can bind him to the things
That fed the first crude souls, evolved;
For, mounting up on daring wings,
He questions mysteries all unsolved.
Above the chant of priests, above
The blatant voice of braying doubt,
He hears the still, small voice of Love,
Which sends its simple message out.
And clearer, sweeter, day by day,
Its mandate echoes from the skies,
"Go roll the stone of self away,
And let the Christ within thee rise."
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
30th
Do not go away from the house of trouble in tears,
but leave the troubled ones you called upon smiling as
you depart. That is true sympathy
Sympathy
re you of a sympathetic nature?
If so, do not let your sympathies
help add to the world's miseries.
That may seem a strange ex-
pression, but it can be explained if
you will listen.
Much of the misery in the world is the result
of imagination.
All of it is the result of selfishness and ignor-
ance.
But hundreds and thousands of people believe
themselves sick, sorrowful and poverty stricken,
who would be well, glad and prosperous, if they
only thought themselves. so.
Every time you pour out sympathy upon
these self-made sufferers, you add to their burden
of wrong thought, and make it just so much
more difficult for them to rise out of their
troubles.
I do not believe all the misfortune in the
world is caused by wrong thinking in this life, or
can be done away with by right thinking. The
three-year-old child who toddles in front of a
trolley car and loses a leg, while the tired mother
is bending over the washtub to keep the wolf of
hunger at bay, cannot be blamed for wrong
thinking as the cause of its trouble. Neither can
the deaf mute or the child born blind or
deformed. We must go farther back, to former
lives, to find the first cause of such misfortunes.
No "New Thought," no amount of optimistic
theology or philosophy can restore the child's
leg, or ears, or eyes. It is utter nonsense to say
that miracles like these can be performed.
There are scores of individuals whom we
meet handicapped in life's race by such dire
calamities that we spontaneously pour forth our
sympathy.
But, even to these, it were kinder and wiser
to give diverting thoughts, and a new outlook,
and to open up avenues for pleasure, and enter-
tainment, and profit, in place of tears and con-
dolence.
Sympathy, without alleviating actions to a
sufferer, is like a cloud without rain to the
parched earth.
But the great majority of people whom we
encounter are making their own crosses, and we
who offer them sympathy, and condolence, are
but adding to the burden's weight.
I do not recommend coldness, indifference, or
ridicule as a substitute for sympathy. But
instead of leading the sick man on to tell you
the details of his illness, and to describe all his
symptoms, while your own body responds with
sympathetic aches and pains as you listen, it is
kinder to divert his attention to some cheerful
and merry topic, or to refer to some case like his
own which resulted in perfect restoration to
health. Instead of going down into his under-
ground cave of depression, bring him out into
the wholesome sunlight of your own healthful
state, even if for a moment only, and impress
upon his mind that health belongs to him, and
must return to him.
To the man in business trouble the same
advice applies.
Tell him you are sorry for him, but do not
take on his despondence to prove it.
Talk of the future and all the possibilities it
holds for a determined man or woman.
Make him laugh. Speak of trouble as the
gymnasium where our moral muscles are devel-
oped. Answer him that everything he desires is
his if he will be persistent and determined in
demanding his own. If you put force in your
words you will leave an impression.
Do not go away from the house of trouble in
tears, but leave the troubled ones you called upon
smiling as you depart.
That is true sympathy.
The Heart of the New Thought by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago : The Psychic Research Company, c1902.
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