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Slide bolts and turn keys on the portal
That shuts back intolerant strife.
Swing wider the doors to immortal
And beautiful precepts of life.
Then ring out old wrongs that are banished,
And ring in new truths that appear,
And speak well of the day that has vanished,
Since it led to the day that is here.
Then sing me a song of the summer,
A song full of warmth and sunlight,
And I will forget that the winter
Stalks over the earth in his might.
I will dream that I lie in the clover,
And your voice is the voice of the breeze,
And the bird in the cage is the robin
That sends down his song from the trees
A FANCY
Drop down the crimson curtains,
And shut out the dazzling snow,
The cold white mantle that covers
The hills, where the grasses should grow;
And stir up the fire till it burneth,
With a heat like the midsummer sun.
And hang up the cage by the window,
And bring in the plants, one by one,
Till they perfume the air with a fragrance
As rare as the summer can bring.
And call to the bird, till he trilleth
The sweetest of notes he can sing.
And let me lie here, while you fan me,
Till the lazy air stirs, like a breeze,
That comes o'er the hills in the summer,
And rustles the tops of the trees.
Then sing me a song of the summer,
A song full of warmth and sunlight,
And I will forget that the winter
Stalks over the earth in his might.
I will dream that I lie in the clover,
And your voice is the voice of the breeze,
And the bird in the cage is the robin,
That sends down his song from the trees.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873.
Whatever is a cruel wrong,
Whatever is unjust,
The honest years that speed along
Will trample in the dust.
In restless youth I railed at fate
With all my puny might--
But now I know if I but wait,
It all will come out right
IT ALL WILL COME OUT RIGHT
Whatever is a cruel wrong,
Whatever is unjust,
The honest years that speed along
Will trample in the dust.
In restless youth I railed at fate
With all my puny might,
But now I know if I but wait
It all will come out right.
Though Vice may don the judge's gown
And play the censor's part,
And Fact be cowed by Falsehood's frown
And Nature ruled by art;
Though Labor toils through blinding tears
And idle Wealth is might,
I know the honest, earnest years
Will bring it all out right.
Though poor and loveless creeds may pass
For pure religion's gold;
Though ignorance may rule the mass
While truth meets glances cold,
I know a law complete, sublime,
Controls us with its might,
And in God's own appointed time
It all will come out right.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c190
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 bloom?
Let the joy fade!
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
Ah, if my lady will consent to listen,
All hours, all times, shall hear my story told.
In amorous dawns, on nights when pale stars glisten,
In dim hushed gloamings and in noon hours bold,
While thunders crash, and while the winds breathe low,
Will I re-tell her that I love her so.
I love her so.
Oh, love is like the dawnlight
That turns the dark to day,
And love is like the deep night
With secrets hid away.
And love is like the moonlight
Where tropic Summers glow,
And love is like the twilight
When dreams begin to grow.
Oh, love is like the sunlight
That sets the world ablaze.
And love is like the moonlight
With soft, illusive rays.
And love is like the starlight
That glimmers o'er the skies.
And love is like the far light
That shines from God's great eyes.
Who toils in the great public vineyard must needs
Let other hands keep his own garden from weeds.
So busy was Mabel with charity fairs
She gave little thought to her home or its cares.
Mrs. Lee, like the typical modern day mother,
Was maid to her daughter; the father and brother
Were slaves at her bidding; an excellent plan
To make a tyrannical wife for some man.
Yet where was the man who, beholding the grace
Of that slight girlish creature, and watching her face
With its infantile beauty and sweetness, would dare
Think aught but the rarest of virtues dwelt there?
Rare virtues she had, but in commonplace ones
Which make happy husbands and home loving sons
She was utterly lacking. Ruth Somerville saw
In sorrow and silence this blemishing flaw
In the friend whom she loved with devotion! Maurice
Saw only the angel with eyes full of peace.
The faults of plain women are easily seen.
But who cares to peer back of beauty's fair screen
For things which are ugly to look on?
The lover
Is not quite in love when his sharp eyes discover
The flaws in his jewel.
Maurice from his room
Looked dreamily down on the garden of bloom,
Where Ruth sat with Roger; he smiled as he thought
How quickly the world sated cynic was brought
Into harness by Cupid. The man mad with drink,
And the man mad with love, is quite certain to think
All other men drunkards or lovers. In truth
Maurice had expected his friend to love Ruth.
"She was young, she was fair; with her bright sunny art
She could scatter the mists from his world befogged heart.
She could give him the one heaven under God's dome,
A peaceful, well ordered, and love-guarded home.
And he? why of course he would worship her! When
Cupid finds the soft spot in the hearts of such men
They are ideal husbands." Maurice Somerville
Felt the whole world was shaping itself to his will.
And his heart stirred with joy as, by thought necromancy,
He made the near future unfold to his fancy,
And saw Ruth the bride of his friend, and the place
She left vacant supplied with the beauty and grace
Of this woman he longed for, the love of his life,
Fair Mabel, his angel, his sweet spirit wife.
Maurice to his desk turned again and once more
Began to unburden his bosom and pour
His heart out on paper--the poet's relief,
When drunk with life's rapture or sick with its grief.
Song.
When shall I tell my lady that I love her?
Will it be while the sunshine woos the world,
Or when the mystic twilight bends above her,
Or when the day's bright banners all are furled?
Will wild winds shriek, or will the calm stars glow,
When I shall tell her that I love her so,
I love her so?
I think the sun should shine in all his glory;
Again, the twilight seems the fitting time.
Yet sweet dark night would understand the story,
So old, so new, so tender, so sublime.
Wild storms should rage to chord with my desire,
Yet faithful stars should shine and never tire,
And never tire.
Ah, if my lady will consent to listen,
All hours, all times, shall hear my story told.
In amorous dawns, on nights when pale stars glisten
In dim hushed gloamings and in noon hours bold,
While thunders crash, and while the winds breathe low,
Will I re-tell her that I love her so.
I love her so
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
O women in homes of splendor,
O lily-buds frail and fair,
With fortunes upon your fingers,
And milk-white pearls in your hair;
I hear you longing and sighing
For some new, fresh delight;
But what of those Pilgrim mothers
On that December night?
SOUL OF AMERICA
READ AT MADISON, WIS., ON THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIFTH
ANNIVERSARY OF THE PILGRIM LANDING.
And now, when poets are singing
Their songs of olden days,
And now, when the land is ringing
With sweet Centennial lays,
My muse goes wandering backward,
To the groundwork of all these,
To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers
Came over the winter seas.
The sons of a mighty kingdom,
Of a cultured folk were they;
Born amidst pomp and splendor,
Bred in it day by day.
Children of bloom and beauty,
Reared under skies serene,
Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed,
And the ivy was always green.
And yet, for the sake of freedom,
For a free religious faith,
They turned from home and people,
And stood face to face with death.
They turned from a tyrant ruler,
And stood on the new world's shore,
With a waste of waters behind them,
And a waste of land before.
O, men of a great Republic;
Of a land of untold worth;
Of a nation that has no equal
Upon God's round green earth:
I hear you sighing and crying
Of the hard, close times at hand;
What think you of those old heroes,
On the rock 'twixt sea and land?
The bells of a million churches
Go ringing out to-night,
And the glitter of palace windows
Fills all the land with light;
And there is the home and college,
And here is the feast and ball,
And the angels of peace and freedom
Are hovering over all.
They had no church, no college,
No banks, no mining stock;
They had but the waste before them,
The sea, and Plymouth Rock.
But there in the night and tempest,
With gloom on every hand,
They laid the first foundation
Of a nation great and grand.
There were no weak repinings,
No shrinking from what might be,
But with their brows to the tempest,
And with their backs to the sea,
They planned out a noble future,
And planted the corner stone
Of the grandest, greatest republic,
The world has ever known.
O women in homes of splendor,
O lily-buds frail and fair,
With fortunes upon your fingers,
And milk-white pearls in your hair:
I hear you longing and sighing
For some new, fresh delight;
But what of those Pilgrim mothers
On that December night?
I hear you talking of hardships,
I hear you moaning of loss;
Each has her fancied sorrow,
Each bears her self-made cross.
But they, they had only their husbands,
The rain, the rock, and the sea,
Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him,
And were glad because they were free.
O grand old Pilgrim heroes,
O souls that were tried and true,
With all of our proud possessions
We are humbled at thought of you:
Men of such might and muscle,
Women so brave and strong,
Whose faith was fixed as the mountain,
Through a night so dark and long.
We know of your grim, grave errors,
As husbands and as wives;
Of the rigid bleak ideas
That starved your daily lives;
Of pent-up, curbed emotions,
Of feelings crushed, suppressed,
That God with the heart created
In every human breast;
We know of that little remnant
Of British tyranny,
When you hunted Quakers and witches,
And swumg them from a tree;
Yet back to a holy motive,
To live in the fear of God,
To a purpose, high, exalted,
To walk where martyrs trod,
We can trace your gravest errors;
Your aim was fixed and sure,
And e'en if your acts were fanatic,
We know your hearts were pure.
You lived so near to heaven,
You over-reached your trust,
And deemed yourselves creators,
Forgetting you were but dust.
But we with our broader visions,
With our wider realm of thought,
I often think would be better
If we lived as our fathers taught.
Their lives seemed bleak and rigid,
Narrow, and void of bloom;
Our minds have too much freedom,
And conscience too much room.
They over-reached in duty,
They starved their hearts for the right;
We live too much in the senses,
We bask too long in the light.
They proved by their clinging to Him
The image of God in man;
And we, by our love of license,
Strengthen a Darwin's plan.
But bigotry reached its limit,
And license must have its sway,
And both shall result in profit
To those of a latter day.
With the fetters of slavery broken,
And freedom's flag unfurled,
Our nation strides onward and upward,
And stands the peer of the world.
Spires and domes and steeples,
Glitter from shore to shore;
The waters are white with commerce,
The earth is studded with ore;
Peace is sitting above us,
And Plenty with laden hand,
Wedded to sturdy Labor,
Goes singing through the land.
Then let each child of the nation,
Who glories in being free,
Remember the Pilgrim Fathers
Who stood on the rock by the sea;
For there in the rain and tempest
Of a night long passed away,
They sowed the seeds of a harvest
We gather in sheaves to-day.
Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 187
The same Force formed the sparrow
That fashioned man, the king.
The God of the whole gave a spark of soul
To furred and to feathered thing.
And I am my brother's keeper,
And I will fight his fight
And speak the word for beast and bird
Till the world shall set things right.
VOICE OF THE VOICELESS
I am the voice of the voiceless:
Through me, the dumb shall speak;
Till the deaf world's ear be made to hear
The cry of the wordless weak.
From street, from cage, and from kennel,
From jungle and stall, the wail
Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin
Of the mighty against the frail.
For love is the true religion,
And love is the law sublime;
And all that is wrought, where love is not,
Will die at the touch of time.
And Science, the great Revealer,
Must flame his torch at the Source;
And keep it bright, with that holy light
Or his feet shall fail on the course.
For he who would trample kindness
And mercy into the dust--
He has missed the trail, and his quest will fail:
He is not the guide to trust.
Oh shame on the mothers of mortals
Who have not stopped to teach
Of the sorrow that lies in dear, dumb eyes,
The sorrow that has no speech.
Oh, never a brute in the forest,
And never a snake in the fen,
Or ravening bird, starvation stirred,
Has hunted his prey like men.
For hunger, and fear, and passion
Alone drive beasts to slay,
But wonderful man, the crown of the Plan,
Tortures, and kills, FOR PLAY.
He goes well fed from his table;
He kisses his child and wife;
Then he haunts a wood, till he orphans a brood,
Or robs a deer of its life.
He aims at a speck in the azure;
Winged love, that has flown at a call;
It reels down to die, and he lets it lie;
His pleasure was seeing it fall.
The same force formed the sparrow
That fashioned Man, the King;
The God of the Whole gave a spark of soul
To each furred and feathered thing.
And I am my brother's keeper,
And I will fight his fight,
And speak the word for beast and bird,
Till the world shall set things right.
Printed broadside.
Albany, N.Y., American Humane Association, [no date]
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
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
. Man may be
And do the thing he wishes if he keeps
That one thought dominant through night and day,
And knows his strength is limitless because
Its fountain-head is God. That mighty stream
Shall bear upon its breast like golden fleets
His hopes, his efforts and his purposes,
To anchor in the harbor of success.
SUCCESS
No mortal yet has measured his full force.
It is a river rising in God's thought
And emptying in the soul of man. Go back,
Back to the Source, and find divinity.
Forget the narrow borders, and ignore
The rocks and chasms which obstruct the way.
Remember the beginning. Man may be
And do the thing he wishes if he keeps
That one thought dominant through night and day,
And knows his strength is limitless because
Its Fountainhead is God. That mighty stream
Shall bear upon its breast, like golden fleets,
His hopes, his efforts and his purposes,
To anchor in the harbor of Success.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902
He whom temptation never has assailed,
Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength;
When sorely tried, we waver, but at length
Rise up and turn away, not having failed
I step across the mystic border-land,
And look upon the wonder-world of Art.
How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!
And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!
The winding paths that lead up to the heights
Are polished by the footsteps of the great.
The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon
Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.
Here are no sounds of discord--no profane
Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--
Only the songs of chisels and of pens,
Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains
Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief
For any day or object left behind--
For time is counted precious, and herein
Is such complete abandonment of Self
That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance
The beauty of the land where all is fair.
Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here
Where the great artists of the world have trod--
The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
Only the singer of a little song;
Yet loving Art with such a mighty love
I hold it greater to have won a place
Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,
Than in the outer world of greed and gain
To sit upon a royal throne and reign.
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy.
I shall leave some good behind me--
I have worked for God and man;
I have dug some truths from the mine of thought,
And aided an All-wise plan
THE WORLD
Alone in my cozy chamber--
Yet I cannot read or write,
For the spell of the past is upon me
And sways my heart to-night.
My lecture lies half completed;
My books hold many a gem
That is mine, I know, for the taking--
But to-night I turn from them.
O world! do you brand forever
The hearts that have once been thine?
Are they cursed with the curse of longing
Who have once knelt at thy shrine?
I drank my fill of thy pleasures--
Drank till the sweets were sour,
And I counted the cost--and the charm was lost
And I freed myself from thy power.
I said, "I will seek for knowledge!
I will climb to higher ground.
For there are on the hills of Wisdom,
True pleasure, alone, is found."
So here with my books and studies,
With my flute, and violin,
I spend the days to my profit--
And at eve, some friend drops in.
And we chat o'er our cozy supper,
Of Science, Progress, Art,
And I feel with a glow of pleasure,
In these I have earned a part.
I shall leave some good behind me--
I have worked for God, and man;
I have dug some truths from the mine of thought,
And aided an All-wise plan.
And yet--and yet--ah Heaven!
There come to me times like this,
When I thirst for empty pleasures--
For the world and its cheating bliss.
I long with sensuous longing
For the perfume, glitter, and glow,
That drugged the reason and senses,
And set the spirits aflow.
Oh to be back this moment--
For an hour of the old delight!
Oh for the strains of the "Danube,"
For the revel and ball, to-night!
Oh for the feast, and the banquet,
The toast and the maddening wine!
Oh world! do you curse forever,
A heart that has once been thine?
Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 1876
Yet there are those who sometimes wander out
Into forbidden paths of sin and grief,
Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt,
Crying, "O God, help Thou mine unbelief!"
Whose lives are one long battle with their sins,
Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth;
And he who battles thus, and battling wins,
God holds and prizes, as of truer worth
TRUE WARRIORS
Not always those who walk on steadily,
In the straight path, where martyr's feet have trod,
Whose raiments seem of spotless purity,
Not always are they most beloved of God.
Although he sees, and knows their righteousness,
And from his throne, with loving eyes, looks down,
And hovers near, to comfort and to bless,
And holds for each fair brow a starry crown--
Yet there are those, who sometimes wander out
Into forbidden paths of sin, and grief,
Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt,
Crying, "Oh God, help thou mine unbelief!"
Whose lives are one long battle with their sins,
Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth;
And he who battles thus, and battling wins,
God holds, and prizes, as of truer worth.
For greater is he, fighting this good fight,
Falling repeatedly, and prone to wrong,
Than he who walketh calmly in the light,
And never falls, because he is so strong.
Who never sins, because sin tempts him not.
To him who fights temptation one by one,
How sweet God's words when the last fight is fought,
"Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873.
He, being All-wise, Father, King, Creator,
It would be strange if you or I should know
All that He knows, or understand His wisdom,
All things He does, or why He does them so.
Were all this plain unto our mortal vision,
There would be nothing new to learn above;
So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden,
I need not doubt His wisdom or His love
DOUBTING
Sometimes we mortals, writhing in bitter anguish,
Crushed by great griefs, that seem too hard to bear,
And led to doubt God's goodness and his wisdom,
And will not lift our burdened hearts in prayer.
I think these moments are the very darkest,
The blackest and the coldest that we know,
And I think God, and Christ, and all the angels,
Pity us most, in this phase of our woe.
I had a little child I fondly cherished;
A winsome, playful, tender-hearted boy,
Strong willed, yet gentle, gay, yet mild and loving,
He was our household idol and our joy.
We lavished on him stores of pure affection;
We gave him the best love our hearts possessed,
We dressed him in rich robes of finest texture,
And gazing on him, felt this earth life-blest.
We taught him all things good, and true, and noble;
We told him of the dear Lord crucified;
We planned for him a bright and happy future;
We guarded him from danger--yet he died.
Not all the gold and riches we might lavish,
Not all our gold could save him from the tomb.
He died! and when the sweet eyes closed forever,
They shut the sunshine in, and left but gloom.
To-day I saw a drunkard's child--a vagrant;
Ill-clad, ill-fed, uncombed, unwashed, and wild;
His home the street--his lessons vice and sorrow--
His garments rags--his youthful lips defiled
With rum, tobacco, lies and loud blaspheming;
What can his future be, but one of crime?
And thinking of this, and of my boy who slumbered,
My heart felt hard, just for a little time.
It seemed so strange, that he, a homeless vagrant,
Unloved, unloving, treading the road to sin,
That he was spared; and mine so fondly cherished--
Mine so beloved, whose life seemed so twined in
And round our heart strings, that when he was taken,
It left them torn and bleeding--he should die;
Ah me, it seemeth strange; and yet God's wisdom
I can not doubt, nor must I question why.
He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator,
It would be strange, if you, or I should know
All that He knows, or understand His wisdom,
All things He does, or why He does them so.
Were all this plain, unto our mortal vision,
There would be nothing new to learn above;
So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden,
I need not doubt His wisdom or His love.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873
I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss;
I have loved my God, and my brother.
There never before was a year like this--
There never can be another.
Linger, loiter, a little while,
For I grieve to see you dying!
But even in grief, I can only smile.
For my heart is too light for sighing
A GOLDEN YEAR
Linger, linger, oh royal year!
For I grieve to see you dying.
Rest on the hilltops---loiter near;
Wait, O Time, in your flying.
For never, in all the twice ten years,
You have brought to build my twenty,
Never was one so free from tears--
So overflowing with plenty.
Filled to the brim with the purest draughts,
That I sip in fearless pleasure;
While an unseen spirit watches and laughs,
And again refills the measure.
My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes,
The year has gathered together,
And right bountifully they have come to me,
From the Spring to the Autumn weather.
The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet,
That grew in the world Ideal,
Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet,
And blossomed among the Real.
And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows,
Passion-hearted, yet tender.
And my path is strewn with the glories of June,
And I'm hedged about with its splendor.
Care flew over the hills, one day,
And I sang, as he swift retreated;
And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down,
On the throne where Care had been seated.
Contentment hedged me all round about,
And Love built his blazing fire;
And Happiness poured his treasures out,
And left me with no desire.
I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss:
I have loved my God, and my brother.
There never before was a year like this--
There never can be another.
Linger, loiter, a little while,
For I grieve to see you dying!
But even in grief, I can only smile,
For my heart is too light for sighing.
Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 187
THE WORLD'S NEED
So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind,
Is all the sad world needs.
Custer and other poems. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
W. B. Conkey Company Chicago, Ill., (1896)
. . . God likes an earnest soul--
Too earnest to be eager. Soon or late
It leaves the spent horde breathless by the way,
And stands serene, triumphant, at the goal.
Earnestness.
I hold it true that thoughts are things
Endowed with bodies, breath and wings,
And that we send them forth to fill
The world with good results--or ill.
SECRET THOUGHTS
I hold it true that thoughts are things
Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings,
And that we send them forth to fill
The world with good results---or ill.
That which we call our secret thought
Speeds to the earth's remotest spot,
And leaves its blessings or its woes
Like tracks behind it as it goes.
It is God's law. Remember it
In your still chamber as you sit
With thoughts you would not dare have known,
And yet made comrades when alone.
These thoughts have life; and they will fly
And leave their impress by and by,
Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned breath
Breathes into homes its fevered breath.
And after you have quite forgot
Or all outgrown some vanished thought,
Back to your mind to make its home,
A dove or raven, it will come.
Then let your secret thoughts be fair;
They have a vital part and share
In shaping worlds and moulding fate---
God's system is so intricate.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 191
However inexplicable may seem
Event and circumstance upon this earth,
Though favors fall on those whom none esteem,
And insult and indifference greet worth,
Though poverty repays the life of toil,
And riches spring where idle feet have trod,
And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil,
Yet justice sways the Universe of God
JUSTICE
However inexplicable may seem
Event and circumstance upon this earth,
Though favours fall on those whom none esteem,
And insult and indifference greet worth;
Though poverty repays the life of toil,
And riches spring where idle feet have trod,
And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil--
Yet Justice sways the universe of God.
As undisturbed the stately stars remain
Beyond the glare of day's obscuring light,
So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain
Seek it persistently by reason's sight.
But when, once freed, the illumined soul looks out.
Its cry will be, 'O God, how could I doubt!'
Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1911
The fragrance and the beauty of the rose
Delight me so, slight thought I give its thorn
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
No longer ridged by fear or doubt,
A level plain life stretches out,
Just sweetly lighted to the end
By star of faith and smile of friend
AN OLD MAN'S VIEW.
We've had no trouble, life and I,
Since Love shook hands, and said good-by;
I mean that fierce young love of youth,
So praised by poets, but in truth
An imp, by wicked fairies sent
To fill the heart with discontent.
What time he occupied my breast,
He racked me with a wild unrest.
I could not sleep, I could not toil;
He chilled my blood, and made it boil.
He tossed me to a dizzy height,
Then dragged me to the depths of night.
One moment life would seem so sweet,
I skimmed the earth with winged feet.
The next, 'twas like a cruel weight,
And all the world was desolate.
Love kept me in such constant strife,
I had no comfort with my life.
Now, since he's ceased to be my guest
My heart beats calmly in my breast.
No longer burned by fears, or pains,
My blood flows calmly through my veins,
A healthy tide; and brings me sleep,
From which I do not wake to weep.
I relish labor, and my food.
All day I'm in a happy mood.
My books, my friends, my toils, bring joy
And calm content without alloy.
I've had love's worst, and best, you see,
And know he holds no more for me.
Some hearts there are God-fashioned so,
Love can come in but once, you know.
And such a one was given me.
And others by the score I see
Wherein love ever comes and goes;
I'm glad I have not one of those,
For such know never that sweet peace,
Which comes but when love's visits cease.
No longer ridged by fear or doubt,
A level plain life stretches out,
Just sweetly lighted to the end
By star of faith, and smile of friend.
Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 1876
It is the same force in the human breast
Which makes men gods or demons. If we gird
Those strong emotions by which we are stirred,
With might of will and purpose, heights unguessed
Shall dawn for us
TWIN-BORN
He who possesses virtue at its best,
Or greatness in the true sense of the word,
Has one day started even with that herd
Whose swift feet now speed, but at sin's behest.
It is the same force in the human breast
Which makes men gods or demons. If we gird
Those strong emotions by which we are stirred
With might of will and purpose, heights unguessed
Shall dawn for us; or if we give them sway
We can sink down and consort with the lost.
All virtue is worth just the price it cost.
Black sin is oft white truth, that missed its way.
And wandered off in paths not understood.
Twin-born I hold great evil and great good.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing--with a bated breath
And white-set face--a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before
BEYOND
It seemeth such a little way to me
Across to that strange country---the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those of whom I am so fond;
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies, that when my sight is clear
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veilèd eyes,
We should find heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,
When from this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dearer country of the dead,
And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet shall I love to go
And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and see
The seal of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think, "One more to welcome me,
When I shall cross the intervening space
Between this land and that one 'over there';
One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."
And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing---with a bated breath,
And white, set face---a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart
I step across the mystic border-land,
And look upon the wonder-world of Art.
How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!
And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!
The winding paths that lead up to the heights
Are polished by the footsteps of the great.
The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon
Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.
Here are no sounds of discord--no profane
Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--
Only the songs of chisels and of pens,
Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains
Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief
For any day or object left behind--
For time is counted precious, and herein
Is such complete abandonment of Self
That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance
The beauty of the land where all is fair.
Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here
Where the great artists of the world have trod--
The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
Only the singer of a little song;
Yet loving Art with such a mighty love
I hold it greater to have won a place
Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,
Than in the outer world of greed and gain
To sit upon a royal throne and reign
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys and sorrows of each yesterday.
Between the swift sun's rising and its setting,
We have no time for useless tears or fretting.
Life is too short.
LIFE IS TOO SHORT
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys, and sorrows, of each yesterday.
Between the swift sun's rising and its setting,
We have no time for useless tears or fretting,
Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;
Time is the best avenger if we wait,
The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing,
We have no room for anything like hate.
This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing
That thick and fast about our feet are stealing,
Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavour,---
Too short for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on for ever and for ever,
It links the worlds that circle on above;
'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever,
In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never
"Life is too short."
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.
In the ladder of lives we are given to climb,
Each life counts for only a second of time.
The one thing to do in the brief little space
Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race
Maurice's Letter to Ruth:
No, no. I have gambled with destiny twice,
And have staked my whole hopes on a home; but the dice
Thrown by Fate made me loser. Henceforward, I know
My lot must be homeless. The gods will it so.
I fought, I rebelled; I was bitter. I strove
To outwit the great Cosmic Forces, above,
Or beyond, or about us, who guide and control
The course of all things from the moat to the soul.
The river may envy the peace of the pond,
But law drives it out to the ocean beyond.
If it roars down abysses, or laughs through the land,
It follows the way which the Forces have planned.
So man is directed. His only the choice
To help or to hinder--to weep or rejoice.
But vain is refusal--and vain discontent,
For at last he must walk in the way that was meant.
My way leads through shadow, alone to the end
I must work out my karma, and follow its trend.
I must fulfill the purpose, whatever it be,
And look not for peace till I merge in God's sea.
Though bankrupt in joy, still my life has its gain;
I have climbed the last round in the ladder of pain.
There is nothing to dread. I have drained sorrow's cup
And can laugh as I fling it at Fate bottom up.
I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the whole.
The best part of love is in loving. My soul
Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give
And to ask no return, is my lot while I live.
Such love may be blindness, but where are love's eyes?
Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise.
Such love may be madness, was love ever sane?
Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain.
Love goes where it must go, and in its own season.
Love cannot be banished by will or by reason.
Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave.
I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave.
So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust,
To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust,
Because the swift foot of a messenger trod
Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the sod?
What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme?
Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream,
God's messengers speed all unseen on their way,
And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day
No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind,
Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be kind.
Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise,
Swing the tides of the sea--set a star in the skies?
Can man fling a million of worlds into space,
To whirl on their orbits with system and grace?
Can he color a sunset, or create a seed,
Or fashion one leaf of the commonest weed?
Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall?
Then how dare he question the Force which does all?
Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand,
All, all must be right, could our souls understand.
Ah, man, the poor egotist! Think with what pride
He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide.
But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies,
The Maker of stars and of seas he denies!
I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past;
I have learned the true secret of living at last.
It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know
That the one thing God wishes of man--is to grow.
Growth, growth out of self, back to him--the First Cause:
Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws.
Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these
To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas?
Does the star long to shine, when He tells it to set,
As the heart would remember when told to forget?
Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be low,
As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe?
In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows,
While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows.
With patient persistence they steadily climb,
And the flame will be quenched in the passage of time.
My heart is the crater, my will is the snow,
Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow.
When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain,
And that is the goal which I seek to attain.
I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent;
In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content.
Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth,
When God, the first laborer, fashioned the earth.
The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf,
But souls who have sought to eliminate self.
Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the blind?
We must better ourselves ere we better our kind.
There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them all,
Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall.
Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed
Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need.
For vain is the effort to give man content
By clothing his body, by paying his rent.
The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs;
Who seeks to serve God by such charity errs.
Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind,
And the body soon cares for itself, you will find.
First, faith in God's wisdom, then purpose and will,
And, like mist before sunlight, shall vanish each ill.
To the far realm of Wisdom there lies a short way.
To find it we need but the password--Obey.
Obey like the acorn that falls to the sod,
To rise, through the heart of the oak tree, to God.
Though slow be the rising, and distant the goal,
Serenity waits at the end for each soul.
I seek it. Not backward, but onward I go,
And since sorrow means growth, I will welcome my woe.
In the ladder of lives we are given to climb,
Each life counts for only a second of time.
The one thing to do in the brief little space,
Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race.
No soul should be sad whom the Maker deemed worth
The great gift of song as its dower at birth.
While I pass on my way, an invisible throng
Breathes low in my ear the new note of a song.
So I am not alone; for by night and by day
These mystical messengers people my way.
They bid me to hearken, they bid me be dumb
And to wait for the true inspiration to come.
THE END
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
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.
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 fac[ts.]
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
To hearts that best know Love, his dark is fair,
His sorrow gladness, and his wrong is right.
All joys lie waiting on his winding stair;
All ways, all paths of Love lead to the light.
Love is the source.
Songs from the Turret.
I hold he is best learnèd and most wise,
Who best and most can love and sympathize.
I step across the mystic border-land,
And look upon the wonder-world of Art.
How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!
And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!
The winding paths that lead up to the heights
Are polished by the footsteps of the great.
The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon
Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.
Here are no sounds of discord--no profane
Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--
Only the songs of chisels and of pens,
Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains
Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief
For any day or object left behind--
For time is counted precious, and herein
Is such complete abandonment of Self
That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance
The beauty of the land where all is fair.
Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here
Where the great artists of the world have trod--
The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
Only the singer of a little song;
Yet loving Art with such a mighty love
I hold it greater to have won a place
Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,
Than in the outer world of greed and gain
To sit upon a royal throne and reign.
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy.
Men said, "You are too jubilant and glad;
The world is full of sorrow and of wrong.
For soon your lips shall breathe forth sighs--not song!"
The day wears on, and yet I am not sad
MY HERITAGE
I into life so full of love was sent,
That all the shadows which fall on the way
Of every human being, could not stay,
But fled before the light my spirit lent.
I saw the world through gold and crimson dyes:
Men sighed, and said, "Those rosy hues will fade
As you pass on into the glare and shade!"
Still beautiful the way seems to mine eyes.
They said, "You are too jubilant and glad;
The world is full of sorrow and of wrong.
For soon your lips shall breathe forth sighs---not song!"
The day wears on, and yet I am not sad.
They said, "You love too largely, and you must
Through wound on wound, grow bitter to your kind."
They were false prophets; day by day I find
More cause for love, and less cause for distrust.
They said, "Too free you give your soul's rare wine;
The world will quaff, but it will not repay."
Yet into the emptied flagons, day by day,
True hearts pour back a nectar as divine.
Thy heritage! Is it not love's estate?
Look to it, then, and keep its soil well tilled.
I hold that my best wishes are fulfilled
Because I love so much, and cannot hate.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 191
Sing and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound
But shrink from voicing care
SOLITUDE
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone,
For sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air,
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure.
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all---
There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
All you bestow on causes or on men,
Of love or hate, of malice or devotion,
Somehow, some time, shall be returned again--
There is no wasted toil, no lost emotion.
THE LAW
Life is a Shylock; always it demands
The fullest usurer's interest for each pleasure.
Gifts are not freely scattered by its hands:
We make returns for every borrowed treasure.
Each talent, each achievement, and each gain
Necessitates some penalty to pay.
Delight imposes lassitude and pain,
As certainly as darkness follows day.
All you bestow on causes or on men,
Of love or hate, of malice or devotion,
Somehow, sometime, shall be returned again---
There is no wasted toil, no lost emotion.
The motto of the world is give and take.
It gives you favours---out of sheer goodwill,
But unless speedy recompense you make,
You'll find yourself presented with its bill.
When rapture comes to thrill the heart of you,
Take it with tempered gratitude. Remember,
Some later time the interest will fall due,
No year brings June that does not bring December.
Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917
It is done, all the year could do for us.
Its mixture of shadow and sun,
Its smiles and its tears, its hopes and its fears,
Its labors and duties, all done.
We stand face to face with the new year,
Nor know what it hides from our sight;
God grant that it be kind to you, and to me,
That it lead us in ways that are light
THE OLD AND THE NEW
As a mother who dies in travail--
Who closes her eyes in death,
And sinks in the sleep that is long and deep,
With her babe's first wailing breath,
In the hush of the midnight watches,
So the old year passed away,
And the new was born, and was hailed this morn,
As the "Happy New Year Day."
The day when our eyes look backward,
To see what our hands have done,
Through the hours of gold that the dead year told,
Like the beads of a pious Nun--
When we shut up the blotted ledger,
With its record of joy and grief,
Of losses and gains, and pleasures and pains,
And turn to the new white leaf.
We hoped, we planned, and we promised,
When the year that is dead was young:
But our hopes are like leaves that are withered,
And the year like a song that is sung.
We planned out some wonderful project,
That should bring to us riches and fame:
Hour by hour, day by day, our plans fell away,
And our project was only a name.
We promised that life should be better,
As the sphere of our labors grew broad,
That "those things behind" should pass from the mind,
As we reached for the prize of our God.
But alas, for the promises given!
Lo, what were our good resolves worth?
They were lost to our sight, and we strayed from the light,
And worshiped the poor things of earth.
And so while we builded our castles,
With turrets of sapphire and gold,
Till they glowed in the sun, the months one by one,
Slipped away, and the year grew old--
Grew feeble and old and departed
In the shadows and gloom of the night;
And some said 'twas a year full of sorrow,
And some, 'twas a year of delight.
Some, sitting in darkness and weeping,
Sob, "Oh, but the year was so long!"
And some, full of cheer, say the beautiful year
Was only one verse of a song.
To some it brought gladness and pleasure,
To others but sorrow and gloom.
It gave one the sweet orange blossoms,
Another, the dust of the tomb.
There are mothers to-day who are sitting,
With arms that are aching to hold
The small form of grace, and the dear little face,
And the head with its crown of spun gold;
And they think of the last happy New Year,
And the voice that made music all day,
And, sitting alone in the silence, they moan,
For the babe that is hidden away.
There are maidens, in love-letters, reading
The story so old and so new;
And their happy hearts beat, in a rythm so sweet,
As they read of the love strong and true;
And they think that of all the glad New Years,
There was never another so glad;
And they heed not the wail of the mother, so pale,
Who thinks the day dreary and sad.
There are some leaning over the coffin
Of a hope that went out with the year;
And their sad eyes are dry, and the lips white that cry,
"The hope of a life-time lies here."
God pity and comfort such mourners,
For God alone knoweth the pain
Of these suffering hearts, when a dear hope departs,
And is buried to rise not again.
It is sad to lean over a lov'd one,
And cover the face with a pall,
But who mourns, with bowed head, o'er a hope that is dead,
Has the bitterest sorrow of all.
God grant that this New Year may bring them,
Some other hope, fully as sweet;
May it cull the bright flowers from happiness' bowers,
And cast them in wreaths at their feet.
Despair and delight walk together;
The sunshine falls over the tomb;
And close by the weary, whose lives are all dreary,
Walk those who are crowned with earth's bloom.
Some wearing the laurels of glory,
And flushed with the glow of success,
May their wreaths never pale, or their honors grow stale,
Or their hopes or their happiness less.
Oh wonderful year that has left us!
Full of tragedy, sorrow and change,
Was there ever another so fateful,
Was there ever another so strange?
Great hearts that were throbbing last New Year
Are food for the grave-worms to-day,
And lips whose least word a whole nation heard,
Are nothing but cold, silent clay.
There was one who was crowned with the Fern Leaves,
Whose ringing tones, full of good cheer,
Lightened hearts that were sad, and made weary ones glad,
On many a weary New Year.
There was one double-dowered by heaven,
Twice gifted and favored by God,
REID, whose brush, and whose pen, made him king among men,--
He, too, lieth under the sod.
And another, the hero of battles,
Before whom the enemy fled
In alarm and dismay, while he won the day,
MEAD,--warrior and hero, is dead.
There was one who climbed up the steep ladder,
Step by step, on rounds that he made;
And carved out his name, on the summit of Fame,
In letters that never will fade.
He struggled for knowledge and riches,
Position and glory, and won .
But, reaching too far, like a child for a star,
He fell, with the words, "It is done!"
It is done, all the climbing and toiling;
It is done, all the worry and strife,
All the bitter and sweet, th' success and defeat,--
It is done, the great drama of life.
It is done, all the year could do for us,
Its mixture of shadow and sun,
Its smiles and its tears, its hopes and its fears,
Its labors and duties, all done.
We stand face to face with the New Year,
Nor know what it hides from our sight;
God grant that it be kind to you, and to me,
That it lead us in ways that are light.
The bells in the steeples are joyful,
The children are shouting in glee,
There is mirth and good cheer in the happy New Year--
All hail to young '73!
Come out of the shadows, ye mourners!
And drop, for this one day at least,
Your mantles of woe, and let us all go
And take part in the revel and feast.
Let us laugh like gay children together,
Forgetting we ever shed tears--
Forgetting the losses, the sorrows and crosses
That came to our lives with the years--
Remembering only the perfume,
The beauty, the bloom, and the sun,
Let us talk of the New Years departed,
And call this the happiest one.
January 1st, 1873
Around the year with Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W.B. Conkey Co., c1904.
Compiled by Ella Giles Ruddy
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