The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Power, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (#12 in our series by Ella Wheeler Wilcox) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Poems of Power Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox Release Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6667] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on January 10, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
Transcribed from the 1918 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Contents:
Note
The
Queen’s last ride
The Meeting of the Centuries
Death
has Crowned him a Martyr
Grief
Illusion
Assertion
I
Am
Wishing
We two
The
Poet’s Theme
Song of the Spirit
Womanhood
Morning
Prayer
The Voices of the People
The
World grows Better
A Man’s Ideal
The
Fire Brigade
The Tides
When
the Regiment came back
Woman to Man
The
Traveller
The Earth
Now
You
and To-day
The Reason
Mission
Repetition
Begin
the Day
Words
Fate and
I
Attainment
A Plea to
Peace
Presumption
High
Noon
Thought-magnets
Smiles
The
Undiscovered Country
The Universal Route
Unanswered
Prayers
Thanksgiving
Contrasts
Thy
Ship
Life
A Marine Etching
“Love
Thyself Last”
Christmas Fancies
The
River
Sorry
Ambition’s
trail
Uncontrolled
Will
To
an Astrologer
The Tendril’s Fate
The
Times
The Question
Sorrow’s
Uses
If
Which are you?
The
Creed to be
Inspiration
The
Wish
Three Friends
You
never can tell
Here and now
Unconquered
All
that love asks
“Does it pay?”
Sestina
The
Optimist
The Pessimist
An
Inspiration
Life’s Harmonies
Preparation
Gethsemane
God’s
Measure
Noblesse Oblige
Through
Tears
What we Need
Plea
to Science
Respite
Song
My
Ships
Her Love
If
Love’s
burial
“Love is enough”
Life
is a Privilege
Insight
A
Woman’s Answer
The World’s Need
The final word in the title of this volume refers to the DIVINE POWER in every human being, the recognition of which is the secret to all success and happiness. It is this idea which many of the verses endeavour to illustrate.
E. W. W.
The Queen is taking a drive to-day,
They have hung with purple
the carriage-way,
They have dressed with purple the royal track
Where
the Queen goes forth and never comes back.
Let no man labour as she goes by
On her last appearance to mortal
eye:
With heads uncovered let all men wait
For the Queen to
pass, in her regal state.
Army and Navy shall lead the way
For that wonderful coach of
the Queen’s to-day.
Kings and Princes and Lords of the land
Shall
ride behind her, a humble band;
And over the city and over the
world
Shall the Flags of all Nations be half-mast-furled,
For
the silent lady of royal birth
Who is riding away from the Courts
of earth,
Riding away from the world’s unrest
To a mystical
goal, on a secret quest.
Though in royal splendour she drives through town,
Her robes
are simple, she wears no crown:
And yet she wears one, for, widowed
no more,
She is crowned with the love that has gone before,
And
crowned with the love she has left behind
In the hidden depths
of each mourner’s mind.
Bow low your heads - lift your hearts on high -
The Queen in
silence is driving by!
A curious vision on mine eyes unfurled
In
the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see,
Two
Centuries meet, and sit down vis-à-vis
Across the great
round table of the world:
One with suggested sorrows in his mien,
And
on his brow the furrowed lines of thought;
And
one whose glad expectant presence brought
A glow and radiance from
the realms unseen.
Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space
The
Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one
(As grave
paternal eyes regard a son)
Gazing upon that other eager face.
And
then a voice, as cadenceless and gray
As the
sea’s monody in winter time,
Mingled with
tones melodious, as the chime
Of bird choirs, singing in the dawns
of May.
THE OLD CENTURY SPEAKS
By you, Hope stands. With me, Experience walks.
Like a
fair jewel in a faded box,
In my tear-rusted heart, sweet Pity
lies.
For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes,
And
those bright-hued ambitions, which I know
Must fall like leaves
and perish, in Time’s snow,
(Even as my soul’s garden
stands bereft,)
I give you pity! ’tis the one gift left.
THE NEW CENTURY
Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but Godspeed,
Here in the morning
of my life I need.
Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears,
To
guide me through the channels of the years.
Oh, I am blinded by
the blaze of light
That shines upon me from the Infinite.
Blurred
is my vision by the close approach
To unseen shores, whereon the
times encroach.
THE OLD CENTURY
Illusion, all illusion. List and hear
The Godless cannons,
booming far and near.
Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed
For
pilot, lo! the pirate age in speed
Bears on to ruin. War’s
most hideous crimes
Besmirch the record of these modern times.
Degenerate
is the world I leave to you, -
My happiest speech to earth will
be - adieu.
THE NEW CENTURY
You speak as one too weary to be just.
I hear the guns - I see
the greed and lust.
The death throes of a giant evil fill
The
air with riot and confusion. Ill
Ofttimes makes fallow ground
for Good; and Wrong
Builds Right’s foundation, when it grows
too strong.
Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand
The
trust you leave in my all-willing hand.
THE OLD CENTURY
As one who throws a flickering taper’s ray
To light departing
feet, my shadowed way
You brighten with your faith. Faith
makes the man
Alas, that my poor foolish age outran
Its early
trust in God! The death of art
And progress follows, when
the world’s hard heart
Casts out religion. ’Tis
the human brain
Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means - gain.
THE NEW CENTURY
Faith is not dead, tho’ priest and creed may pass,
For
thought has leavened the whole unthinking mass,
And man looks now
to find the God within.
We shall talk more of love, and less of
sin,
In this new era. We are drawing near
Unatlassed
boundaries of a larger sphere.
With awe, I wait, till Science leads
us on,
Into the full effulgence of its dawn.
In the midst of sunny waters, lo! the mighty Ship of State
Staggers,
bruised and torn and wounded by a derelict of fate,
One that drifted
from its moorings in the anchorage of hate.
On the deck our noble Pilot, in the glory of his prime,
Lies
in woe-impelling silence, dead before his hour or time,
Victim
of a mind self-centred in a Godless fool of crime.
One of earth’s dissension-breeders, one of Hate’s unreasoning
tools,
In the annals of the ages, when the world’s hot anger
cools,
He who sought for Crime’s distinction shall be known
as Chief of Fools.
In the annals of the ages, he who had no thought of fame
(Keeping
on the path of duty, caring not for praise or blame),
Close beside
the deathless Lincoln, writ in light, will shine his name.
Youth proclaimed him as a hero; time, a statesman; love, a man;
Death
has crowned him as a martyr, - so from goal to goal he ran,
Knowing
all the sum of glory that a human life may span.
He was chosen by the people; not an accident of birth
Made him
ruler of a nation, but his own intrinsic worth.
Fools may govern
over kingdoms - not republics of the earth.
He has raised the lovers’ standard by his loyalty and faith,
He
has shown how virile manhood may keep free from scandal’s breath.
He
has gazed, with trust unshaken, in the awful eyes of Death.
In the mighty march of progress he has sought to do his best.
Let
his enemies be silent, as we lay him down to rest,
And may God
assuage the anguish of one suffering woman’s breast.
As the funeral train with its honoured dead
On
its mournful way went sweeping,
While a sorrowful nation bowed
its head
And the whole world joined in weeping,
I
thought, as I looked on the solemn sight,
Of
the one fond heart despairing,
And I said to myself, as in truth
I might,
“How sad must be this sharing.”
To share the living with even Fame,
For a
heart that is only human,
Is hard, when Glory asserts her claim
Like
a bold, insistent woman;
Yet a great, grand passion can put aside
Or
stay each selfish emotion,
And watch, with a pleasure that springs
from pride,
Its rival - the world’s devotion.
But Death should render to love its own,
And
my heart bowed down and sorrowed
For the stricken woman who wept
alone
While even her dead was borrowed;
Borrowed
from her, the bride - the wife -
For the world’s
last martial honour,
As she sat in the gloom of her darkened life,
With
her widow’s grief fresh upon her.
He had shed the glory of Love and Fame
In
a golden halo about her;
She had shared his triumphs and worn his
name:
But, alas! he had died without her.
He
had wandered in many a distant realm,
And never
had left her behind him,
But now, with a spectral shape at the
helm,
He had sailed where she could not find
him.
It was only a thought, that came that day
In
the midst of the muffled drumming
And funeral music and sad display,
That
I knew was right and becoming
Only a thought as the mourning train
Moved,
column after column,
Bearing the dead to the burial plain
With
a reverence grand as solemn.
God and I in space alone
And nobody else in
view.
“And where are the people, O Lord,” I said,
“The
earth below, and the sky o’er head,
And
the dead whom once I knew?”
“That was a dream,” God smiled and said -
“A
dream that seemed to be true.
There were no people, living or dead,
There
was no earth, and no sky o’erhead;
There
was only Myself - in you.”
“Why do I feel no fear,” I asked,
“Meeting
You here this way?
For I have sinned I know full well?
And
is there heaven, and is there hell,
And is this
the judgment day?”
“Say, those were but dreams,” the Great God said,
“Dreams,
that have ceased to be.
There are no such things as fear or sin,
There
is no you - you never have been -
There is nothing
at all but Me.”
I am serenity. Though passions beat
Like
mighty billows on my helpless heart,
I know beyond them lies the
perfect sweet
Serenity, which patience can impart.
And
when wild tempests in my bosom rage,
“Peace, peace,”
I cry, “it is my heritage.”
I am good health. Though fevers rack my brain
And
rude disorders mutilate my strength,
A perfect restoration after
pain,
I know shall be my recompense at length.
And
so through grievous day and sleepless night,
“Health, health,”
I cry, “it is my own by right.”
I am success. Though hungry, cold, ill-clad,
I
wander for awhile, I smile and say,
“It is but for a time
- I shall be glad
To-morrow, for good fortune
comes my way.
God is my father, He has wealth untold,
His
wealth is mine, health, happiness, and gold.”
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.”
Do you wish the world were better?
Let me
tell you what to do:
Set a watch upon your actions,
Keep
them always straight and true;
Rid your mind of selfish motives;
Let
your thoughts be clean and high.
You can make a little Eden
Of
the sphere you occupy.
Do you wish the world were wiser?
Well, suppose
you make a start,
By accumulating wisdom
In
the scrapbook of your heart:
Do not waste one page on folly;
Live
to learn, and learn to live.
If you want to give men knowledge
You
must get it, ere you give.
Do you wish the world were happy?
Then remember
day by day
Just to scatter seeds of kindness
As
you pass along the way;
For the pleasures of the many
May
be ofttimes traced to one,
As the hand that plants an acorn
Shelters
armies from the sun.
We two make home of any place we go;
We two
find joy in any kind of weather;
Or if the earth
is clothed in bloom or snow,
If summer days invite,
or bleak winds blow,
What matters it if we two are together?
We
two, we two, we make our world, our weather.
We two make banquets of the plainest fare;
In
every cup we find the thrill of pleasure;
We
hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care,
And
win to smiles the set lips of despair.
For us life always moves
with lilting measure;
We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure.
We two find youth renewed with every dawn;
Each
day holds something of an unknown glory.
We waste
no thought on grief or pleasure gone;
Tricked
out like hope, time leads us on and on,
And thrums upon his harp
new song or story.
We two, we two, we find the paths of glory.
We two make heaven here on this little earth;
We
do not need to wait for realms eternal.
We know
the use of tears, know sorrow’s worth,
And
pain for us is always love’s rebirth.
Our paths lead closely
by the paths supernal;
We two, we two, we live in love eternal.
What is the explanation of the strange silence of American poets
concerning American triumphs on sea and land?
Literary Digest.
Why should the poet of these pregnant times
Be asked to sing
of war’s unholy crimes?
To laud and eulogize the trade which thrives
On horrid holocausts
of human lives?
Man was a fighting beast when earth was young,
And war the only
theme when Homer sung.
’Twixt might and might the equal contest lay,
Not so the
battles of our modern day.
Too often now the conquering hero struts
A Gulliver among the
Liliputs.
Success no longer rests on skill or fate,
But on the movements
of a syndicate.
Of old men fought and deemed it right and just.
To-day the warrior
fights because he must,
And in his secret soul feels shame because
He desecrates the
higher manhood’s laws
Oh! there are worthier themes for poet’s pen
In this great
hour, than bloody deeds of men
Or triumphs of one hero (though he be
Deserving song for his
humility):
The rights of many - not the worth of one;
The coming issues
- not the battle done;
The awful opulence, and awful need;
The rise of brotherhood
- the fall of greed,
The soul of man replete with God’s own force,
The call
“to heights,” and not the cry “to horse,” -
Are there not better themes in this great age
For pen of poet,
or for voice of sage
Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumb
Only that
greater song in time may come.
When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for,
He will not
sing of War.
All the aim of life is just
Getting back to
God.
Spirit casting off its dust,
Getting
back to God.
Every grief we have to bear
Disappointment, cross,
despair
Each is but another stair
Climbing
back to God.
Step by step and mile by mile -
Getting back
to God;
Nothing else is worth the while -
Getting
back to God.
Light and shadow fill each day
Joys and sorrows
pass away,
Smile at all, and smiling, say,
Getting
back to God.
Do not wear a mournful face
Getting back to
God;
Scatter sunshine on the place
Going
back to God;
Take what pleasure you can find,
But where’er
your paths may wind.
Keep the purpose well in mind, -
Getting
back to God.
She must be honest, both in thought and deed,
Of generous impulse,
and above all greed;
Not seeking praise, or place, or power, or
pelf,
But life’s best blessings for her higher self,
Which
means the best for all.
She
must have faith,
To make good friends of Trouble, Pain, and Death,
And
understand their message.
She
should be
As redolent with tender sympathy
As is a rose with
fragrance.
Cheerfulness
Should
be her mantle, even though her dress
May be of Sorrow’s weaving.
On
her face
A loyal nature leaves its seal of grace,
And chastity
is in her atmosphere.
Not that chill chastity which seems austere
(Like
untrod snow-peaks, lovely to behold
Till once attained - then barren,
loveless, cold);
But the white flame that feeds upon the soul
And
lights the pathway to a peaceful goal.
A sense of humour, and a
touch of mirth,
To brighten up the shadowy spots of earth;
And
pride that passes evil - choosing good.
All these unite in perfect
womanhood.
Let me to-day do something that shall take
A
little sadness from the world’s vast store,
And may I be
so favoured as to make
Of joy’s too scanty
sum a little more
Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed
Or
thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend;
Nor would I pass,
unseeing, worthy need,
Or sin by silence when
I should defend.
However meagre be my worldly wealth,
Let
me give something that shall aid my. kind -
A word of courage,
or a thought of health,
Dropped as I pass for
troubled hearts to find.
Let me to-night look back across the span
’Twixt
dawn and dark, and to my conscience say -
Because of some good
act to beast or man -
“The world is better
that I lived to-day.”
Oh! I hear the people calling through the day time and the night
time,
They are calling, they are crying for the coming of the right
time.
It behooves you, men and women, it behooves you to be heeding,
For
there lurks a note of menace underneath their plaintive pleading.
Let the land usurpers listen, let the greedy-hearted ponder,
On
the meaning of the murmur, rising here and swelling yonder,
Swelling
louder, waxing stronger, like a storm-fed stream that courses
Through
the valleys, down abysses, growing, gaining with new forces.
Day by day the river widens, that great river of opinion,
And
its torrent beats and plunges at the base of greed’s dominion.
Though
you dam it by oppression and fling golden bridges o’er it,
Yet
the day and hour advances when in fright you’ll flee before it.
Yes, I hear the people calling, through the night time and the day
time,
Wretched toilers in life’s autumn, weary young ones
in life’s May time -
They are crying, they are calling for
their share of work and pleasure;
You are heaping high your coffers
while you give them scanty measure, -
You have stolen God’s
wide acres, just to glut your swollen purses -
Oh! restore them
to His children ere their pleading turns to curses.
Oh! the earth is full of sinning
And of trouble
and of woe,
But the devil makes an inning
Every
time we say it’s so.
And the way to set him scowling,
And
to put him back a pace,
Is to stop this stupid growling,
And
to look things in the face.
If you glance at history’s pages,
In
all lands and eras known,
You will find the buried ages
Far
more wicked than our own.
As you scan each word and letter.
You
will realise it more,
That the world to-day is better
Than
it ever was before.
There is much that needs amending
In the present
time, no doubt;
There is right that needs amending,
There
is wrong needs crushing out.
And we hear the groans and curses
Of
the poor who starve and die,
While the men with swollen purses
In
the place of hearts go by.
But in spite of all the trouble
That obscures
the sun to-day,
Just remember it was double
In
the ages passed away.
And those wrongs shall all be righted,
Good
shall dominate the land,
For the darkness now is lighted
By
the torch in Science’s hand.
Forth from little motes in Chaos,
We have
come to what we are;
And no evil force can stay us -
We
shall mount from star to star,
We shall break each bond and fetter
That
has bound us heretofore;
And the earth is surely better
Than
it ever was before.
A lovely little keeper of the home,
Absorbed in menu books,
yet erudite
When I need counsel; quick at repartee
And slow
to anger. Modest as a flower,
Yet scintillant and radiant
as a star.
Unmercenary in her mould of mind,
While opulent
and dainty in her tastes.
A nature generous and free, albeit
The
incarnation of economy.
She must be chaste as proud Diana was,
Yet
warm as Venus. To all others cold
As some white glacier glittering
in the sun;
To me as ardent as the sensuous rose
That yields
its sweetness to the burrowing bee
All ignorant of evil in the
world,
And innocent as any cloistered nun,
Yet wise as Phryne
in the arts of love
When I come thirsting to her nectared lips.
Good
as the best, and tempting as the worst,
A saint, a siren, and a
paradox.
Hark! high o’er the rattle and clamour and clatter
Of
traffic-filled streets, do you hear that loud noise?
And pushing
and rushing to see what’s the matter,
Like
herds of wild cattle, go pell-mell the boys.
There’s a fire in the city! the engines are coming!
The
bold bells are clanging, “Make way in the street!”
The
wheels of the hose-cart are spinning and humming
In
time to the music of galloping feet.
Make way there! make way there! the horses are flying,
The
sparks from their swift hoofs shoot higher and higher,
The crowds
are increasing - the gamins are crying:
“Hooray,
boys!” “Hooray, boys!” “Come on
to the fire!”
With clanging and banging and clatter and rattle
The
long ladders follow the engine and hose.
The men are all ready
to dash into battle;
But will they come out again?
God only knows.
At windows and doorways crowd questioning faces;
There’s
something about it that quickens one’s breath.
How proudly
the brave fellows sit in their places -
And speed
to the conflict that may be their death!
Still faster and faster and faster and faster
The
grand horses thunder and leap on their way
The red foe is yonder,
and may prove the master;
Turn out there, bold
traffic - turn out there, I say!
For once the loud truckman knows oaths will not matter
And
reins in his horses and yields to his fate.
The engines are coming!
let pleasure-crowds scatter,
Let street car and
truckman and mail waggon wait.
They speed like a comet - they pass in a minute;
The
boys follow on like a tail to a kite;
The commonplace street has
but traffic now in it -
The great fire engines
have swept out of sight.
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
On
outgoing billows it drifts from your sight,
But back on the incoming
waves it may ride
And land at your threshold
again before night.
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
Be careful what follies you toss in life’s sea.
On
bright dancing billows they drift far away,
But back on the Nemesis
tides they may be
Thrown down at your threshold
an unwelcome day
Be careful what follies you toss in youth’s
sea.
All the uniforms were blue, all the swords were bright and new,
When
the regiment went marching down the street,
All the men were hale
and strong as they proudly moved along,
Through
the cheers that drowned the music of their feet.
Oh the music of
the feet keeping time to drums that beat,
Oh
the splendour and the glitter of the sight,
As with swords and
rifles new and in uniforms of blue
The regiment
went marching to the fight!
When the regiment came back all the guns and swords were black
And
the uniforms had faded out to gray,
And the faces of the men who
marched through that street again
Seemed like
faces of the dead who lose their way.
For the dead who lose their
way cannot look more wan and gray.
Oh the sorrow
and the pity of the sight,
Oh the weary lagging feet out of step
with drums that beat,
As the regiment comes marching
from the fight.
Woman is man’s enemy, rival, and competitor. - JOHN. J. INGALLS.
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand
be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals! How could
light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf,
Or competition
dwell ’twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of
yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we entertwine
And
make the perfect whole. You could not be,
Unless we gave
you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were
that soil
Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read
One
woman bore a child with no man’s aid,
We find no record of
a man-child born
Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood
Is
but a small achievement at the best,
While motherhood comprises
heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most
unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy,
when
There is not time enough for all of love,
Our rightful
occupation in this life?
Why prate of our defects, of where we
fail,
When just the story of our worth would need
Eternity
for telling, and our best
Development comes ever through your praise,
As
through our praise you reach your highest self?
Oh! had you not
been miser of your praise
And let our virtues be their own reward,
The
old-established order of the world
Would never have been changed.
Small blame is ours
For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse.
Effeminising
of the male. We were
Content, sir, till you starved us, heart
and brain.
All we have done, or wise, or otherwise,
Traced
to the root, was done for love of you.
Let us taboo all vain comparisons,
And
go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,
Companions, mates, and
comrades evermore;
Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.
Reply to Rudyard Kipling’s “He travels the fastest who travels alone.”
Who travels alone with his eyes on the heights,
Though 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 though full gaily 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.
Though 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.
The earth is yours and mine,
Our God’s
bequest.
That testament divine
Who dare
contest?
Usurpers of the earth,
We claim our share.
We
are of royal birth.
Beware! beware!
Unloose the hand of greed
From God’s
fair land,
We claim but what we need -
That,
we demand.
I leave with God to-morrow’s where and how,
And do concern
myself but with the Now,
That little word, though half the future’s
length,
Well used, holds twice its meaning and its strength.
Like one blindfolded groping out his way,
I will not try to
touch beyond to-day.
Since all the future is concealed from sight
I
need but strive to make the next step right.
That done, the next, and so on, till I find
Perchance some day
I am no longer blind,
And looking up, behold a radiant Friend
Who
says, “Rest, now, for you have reached the end.”
With every rising of the sun
Think of your life as just begun.
The past has shrived and buried deep
All yesterdays - there
let them sleep,
Nor seek to summon back one ghost
Of that innumerable host.
Concern yourself with but to-day;
Woo it and teach it to obey
Your wish and will. Since time began
To-day has been the
friend of man.
But in his blindness and his sorrow
He looks to yesterday and
to-morrow.
You and to-day! a soul sublime
And the great pregnant hour of
time.
With God between to bind the train,
Go forth, I say - attain
- attain.
Do you know what moves the tides
As they swing
from low to high?
’Tis the love, love, love,
Of
the moon within the sky.
Oh! they follow where she guides,
Do
the faithful-hearted tides.
Do you know what moves the earth
Out of winter
into spring?
’Tis the love, love, love,
Of
the sun, the mighty king.
Oh the rapture that finds birth
In
the kiss of sun and earth!
Do you know what makes sweet songs
Ring for
me above earth’s strife?
’Tis the love, love, love,
That
you bring into my life,
Oh the glory of the songs
In the heart
where love belongs!
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.
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.
Begin each morning with a talk to God,
And ask for your divine
inheritance
Of usefulness, contentment, and success.
Resign
all fear, all doubt, and all despair.
The stars doubt not, and
they are undismayed,
Though whirled through space for countless
centuries,
And told not why or wherefore: and the sea
With
everlasting ebb and flow obeys,
And leaves the purpose with the
unseen Cause.
The star sheds radiance on a million worlds,
The
sea is prodigal with waves, and yet
No lustre from the star is
lost, and not
One drop is missing from the ocean tides.
Oh!
brother to the star and sea, know all
God’s opulence is held
in trust for those
Who wait serenely and who work in faith.
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.
Wise men tell me thou, O Fate,
Art invincible and great.
Well, I own thy prowess; still
Dare I flout 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 harbours 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!
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.
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 honour is a thing of
trade,
And turns the searchlight full on many a place
Where
proud conventions long have masked disgrace.
O 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, O 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 labour 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.
Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder -
I
check myself, and say, “That mighty One
Who made the solar
system cannot blunder -
And for the best all
things are being done.”
Who set the stars on their eternal
courses
Has fashioned this strange earth by some
sure plan.
Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces,
Nor
dare to doubt their wisdom, puny man.
You cannot put one little star in motion,
You
cannot shape one single forest leaf,
Nor fling a mountain up, nor
sink an ocean,
Presumptuous pigmy, large with
unbelief.
You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendour,
Nor
bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,
Nor send the pale moon forth
with radiance tender -
And dare you doubt the
One who has done all?
“So much is wrong, there is such pain - such sinning.”
Yet
look again - behold how much is right!
And He who formed the world
from its beginning
Knows how to guide it upward
to the light.
Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil
At
God’s achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good,
and turn away from evil.
That is the way to help
the world along.
Time’s finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon!
and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for
the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those
who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields
but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We
cannot count on ravelled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric.
We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And
toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink
How brief the past,
the future, still more brief
Calls on to action, action!
Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time
for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly? Then I
must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I
done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned
to ashes on my lip
Be my reminder in temptation’s hour,
And
keep me silent when I would condemn.
Sometimes it takes the acid
of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity
may shine through them.
Looking back,
My faults
and errors seem like stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge
of the truth
And made me value virtue; sorrows shine
In rainbow
colours o’er the gulf of years,
Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth,
Out to the
western sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted
for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men, and with myself,
Up the steep
summit of my life’s forenoon,
Three things I learned, three
things of precious worth,
To guide and help me down the western
slope.
I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save:
To
pray for courage to receive what comes,
Knowing what comes to be
divinely sent;
To toil for universal good, since thus
And
only thus can good come unto me;
To save, by giving whatsoe’er
I have
To those who have not - this alone is gain.
With each strong thought, with every earnest longing
For
aught thou deemest needful to thy soul,
Invisible vast forces are
set thronging
Between thee and that goal
’Tis only when some hidden weakness alters
And
changes thy desire, or makes it less,
That this mysterious army
ever falters
Or stops short of success.
Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure,
Or
boon, or aim, or object, is the steel;
And its attainment hangs
but on the measure
Of what thy soul can feel.
Smile a little, smile a little,
As you go
along,
Not alone when life is pleasant,
But
when things go wrong.
Care delights to see you frowning,
Loves
to hear you sigh;
Turn a smiling face upon her -
Quick
the dame will fly.
Smile a little, smile a little,
All along
the road;
Every life must have its burden,
Every
heart its load.
Why sit down in gloom and darkness
With
your grief to sup?
As you drink Fate’s bitter tonic,
Smile
across the cup.
Smile upon the troubled pilgrims
Whom you
pass and meet;
Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms
Oft
for weary feet.
Do not make the way seem harder
By
a sullen face;
Smile a little, smile a little,
Brighten
up the place.
Smile upon your undone labour;
Not for one
who grieves
O’er his task waits wealth or glory;
He
who smiles achieves.
Though you meet with loss and sorrow
In
the passing years,
Smile a little, smile a little,
Even
through your tears.
Man has explored all countries and all lands,
And made his own
the secrets of each clime.
Now, ere the world has fully reached
its prime,
The oval earth lies compassed with steel bands,
The
seas are slaves to ships that touch all strands,
And
even the haughty elements, sublime
And bold,
yield him their secrets for all time,
And speed like lackeys forth
at his commands.
Still, though he search from shore to distant shore,
And
no strange realms, no unlocated plains
Are left for his attainment
and control,
Yet is there one more kingdom to explore.
Go,
know thyself, O man! there yet remains
The undiscovered country
of thy soul!
As we journey along, with a laugh and a song,
We
see, on youth’s flower-decked slope,
Like a beacon of light,
shining fair on the sight,
The beautiful Station
of Hope.
But the wheels of old Time roll along as we climb,
And
our youth speeds away on the years;
And with hearts that are numb
with life’s sorrows we come
To the mist-covered
Station of Tears.
Still onward we pass, where the milestones, alas!
Are
the tombs of our dead, to the West,
Where glitters and gleams,
in the dying sunbeams,
The sweet, silent Station
of Rest.
All rest is but change, and no grave can estrange
The
soul from its Parent above;
And, scorning the rod, it soars back
to its God,
To the limitless City of Love.
Like some schoolmaster, kind in being stern,
Who hears the children
crying o’er their slates
And calling, “Help me, master!”
yet helps not,
Since in his silence and refusal lies
Their
self-development, so God abides
Unheeding many prayers. He
is not deaf
To any cry sent up from earnest hearts;
He hears
and strengthens when He must deny.
He sees us weeping over life’s
hard sums;
But should He give the key and dry our tears,
What
would it profit us when school were done
And not one lesson mastered?
What a world
Were this if
all our prayers were answered. Not
In famed Pandora’s
box were such vast ills
As lie in human hearts. Should our
desires,
Voiced one by one in prayer, ascend to God
And come
back as events shaped to our wish,
What chaos would result!
In my fierce youth
I sighed
out breath enough to move a fleet,
Voicing wild prayers to heaven
for fancied boons
Which were denied; and that denial bends
My
knee to prayers of gratitude each day
Of my maturer years.
Yet from those prayers
I rose alway regirded for the strife
And
conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart,
That which
thou pleadest for may not be given,
But in the lofty altitude where
souls
Who supplicate God’s grace are lifted, there
Thou
shalt find help to bear thy daily lot
Which is not elsewhere found.
We walk on starry fields of white
And do not
see the daisies,
For blessings common in our sight
We
rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To
crown our lives with splendour,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of
pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon
our thought and feeling;
They hang about us all the day,
Our
time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We
pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives,
And
conquers if we let it.
There’s not a day in all the year
But
holds some hidden pleasure,
And, looking back, joys oft appear
To
brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends,
I hold,
Who love and labour near us.
We
ought to raise our notes of praise
While living
hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry
or of trouble;
Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,
Who
knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To
thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To
gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy,
glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of
music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As
weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good
time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
I see the tall church steeples -
They reach
so far, so far;
But the eyes of my heart see the world’s
great mart
Where the starving people are.
I hear the church bells ringing
Their
chimes on the morning air;
But my soul’s sad ear is hurt
to hear
The poor man’s cry of despair.
Thicker and thicker the churches,
Nearer and
nearer the sky -
But alack for their creeds while the poor man’s
needs
Grow deeper as years roll by!
Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored
The priceless
riches of all climes and lands,
Say, wouldst thou let it float
upon the seas
Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport,
And of
wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?
Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed
Lies all the
wealth of this vast universe -
Yea, lies some part of God’s
omnipotence,
The legacy divine of every soul.
Thy will, O
man, thy will is that great ship,
And yet behold it drifting here
and there -
One moment lying motionless in port,
Then on high
seas by sudden impulse flung,
Then drying on the sands, and yet
again
Sent forth on idle quests to no-man’s land
To
carry nothing and to nothing bring;
Till, worn and fretted by the
aimless strife
And buffeted by vacillating winds,
It founders
on a rock, or springs a leak,
With all its unused treasures in
the hold.
Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel
And steer to
knowledge, glory, and success.
Great mariners have made the pathway
plain
For thee to follow; hold thou to the course
Of Concentration
Channel, and all things
Shall come in answer to thy swerveless
wish
As comes the needle to the magnet’s call,
Or sunlight
to the prisoned blade of grass
That yearns all winter for the kiss
of spring.
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.
A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free,
And leaped like
a steed o’er the race-track blue,
Then up behind her the
dust of the sea,
A gray fog, drifted, and hid her from view.
Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty
To
those who walk beside thee down life’s road.
Make glad their
days by little acts of beauty
And help them bear
the burden of earth’s load.
Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger
Who
staggers ’neath his sin and his despair;
Go, lend a hand,
and lead him out of danger,
To heights where
he may see the world is fair.
Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee
Are
filled with Spirit-Forces; strong and pure
And fervently these
faithful friends shall love thee
Keep thou thy
watch o’er others and endure.
Love thyself last, and oh! such joy shall thrill thee
As
never yet to selfish souls was given;
Whate’er thy lot, a
perfect peace will fill thee,
And earth shall
seem the ante-room of Heaven.
Love thyself last, and thou shalt grow in spirit
To
see, to hear, to know, and understand.
The message of the stars,
lo, thou shalt hear it,
And all God’s joys
shall be at thy command.
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
We
hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago,
And
etched on vacant places
Are half-forgotten faces
Of
friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know -
When Christmas
bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near,
We see,
with strange emotion, that is not free from fear,
That
continent Elysian
Long vanished from our vision,
Youth’s
lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear,
Uprising from
the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy, gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth,
The
dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth,
And
draws from youth’s recesses
Some memory
it possesses,
And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates
its worth,
When gloomy, gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis
Each heart recalls
some folly that lit the world with bliss.
Not
all the seers and sages
With wisdom of the ages
Can
give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss
When hanging
up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays,
As passing
years are proving, for all of Time’s sad ways.
There
lies a sting in pleasure,
And fame gives shallow
measure,
And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days,
For
life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes,
And
silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes,
Let
Love, the world’s beginning,
End fear and
hate and sinning;
Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshipped in all
climes
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.
I am a river flowing from God’s sea
Through devious ways.
He mapped my course for me;
I cannot change it; mine alone the
toil
To keep the waters free from grime and soil.
The winding
river ends where it began;
And when my life has compassed its brief
span
I must return to that mysterious source.
So let me gather
daily on my course
The perfume from the blossoms as I pass,
Balm
from the pines, and healing from the grass,
And carry down my current
as I go
Not common stones but precious gems to show;
And tears
(the holy water from sad eyes)
Back to God’s sea, from which
all rivers rise,
Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts,
Nor
poison which the upas tree imparts.
When over flowery vales I leap
with joy,
Let me not devastate them, nor destroy,
But rather
leave them fairer to the sight;
Mine be the lot to comfort and
delight.
And if down awful chasms I needs must leap,
Let me
not murmur at my lot, but sweep
On bravely to the end without one
fear,
Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near.
Love
sent me forth, to Love I go again,
For Love is all, and over all.
Amen.
There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life’s
way,
And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day.
I’m
sorry for the strong, brave men who shield the weak from harm,
But
who, in their own troubled hours, find no protecting arm.
I’m sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand
As
targets for the arrows shot by envious failure’s hand.
I’m
sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine,
But
drink alone the gall of tears in fortune’s drear decline.
I’m sorry for the souls who build their own fame’s funeral
pyre,
Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire.
I’m
sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin’s defeat,
But
daily tread down fierce desire ’neath scorched and bleeding feet.
I’m sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion’s
strain,
But I’m sorrier for the poor starved souls that never
knew love’s pain,
Who hunger on through barren years not
tasting joys they crave,
For sadder far is such a lot than weeping
o’er a grave.
I’m sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth,
I’m
sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth,
I’m sorry
for the suffering poor in life’s great maelstrom hurled -
In
truth, I’m sorry for them all who make this aching world.
But underneath whate’er seems sad and is not understood,
I
know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good.
And this
belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text -
The sorriest
things in this life will seem grandest in the next.
If all the end of this continuous striving
Were
simply to attain,
How poor would seem the planning and contriving,
The
endless urging and the hurried driving,
Of body,
heart, and brain!
But ever in the wake of true achieving
There
shines this glowing trail -
Some other soul will be spurred on,
conceiving
New strength and hope, in its own power believing,
Because
thou didst not fail.
Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow,
If
thou dost miss the goal;
Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow
From
thee their weakness or their force shall borrow -
On,
on, ambitious soul.
The mighty forces of mysterious space
Are
one by one subdued by lordly man.
The awful lightning
that for eons ran
Their devastating and untrammelled
race,
Now bear his messages from place to place
Like
carrier doves. The winds lead on his van;
The
lawless elements no longer can
Resist his strength, but yield with
sullen grace.
His bold feet scaling heights before untrod,
Light,
darkness, air and water, heat and cold,
He
bids go forth and bring him power and pelf.
And yet, though ruler,
king and demi-god,
He walks with his fierce passions
uncontrolled,
The conqueror
of all things - save himself.
You will be what you will to be;
Let failure
find its false content
In that poor word “environment,”
But
spirit scorns it, and is free.
It masters time, it conquers space,
It cowes
that boastful trickster Chance,
And bids the
tyrant Circumstance
Uncrown and fill a servant’s place.
The human Will, that force unseen,
The offspring
of a deathless Soul,
Can hew the way to any goal,
Though
walls of granite intervene.
Be not impatient in delay,
But wait as one
who understands;
When spirit rises and commands,
The
gods are ready to obey.
The river seeking for the sea
Confronts the
dam and precipice,
Yet knows it cannot fail or
miss;
You will be what you will to be!
Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore,
Nor question that
the tenor of my life,
Past, present, and the future, is revealed
There
in my horoscope. I do believe
That yon dead moon compels
the haughty seas
To ebb and flow, and that my natal star
Stands
like a stern-browed sentinel in space
And challenges events; nor
lets one grief,
Or joy, or failure, or success, pass on
To
mar or bless my earthly lot, until
It proves its Karmic right to
come to me.
All this I grant, but more than this I know!
Before the
solar systems were conceived,
When nothing was but the unnamable,
My
spirit lived, an atom of the Cause.
Through countless ages and
in many forms
It has existed, ere it entered in
This human
frame to serve its little day
Upon the earth. The deathless
Me of me.
The spark from that great all-creative fire,
Is
part of that eternal source called God,
And mightier than the universe.
Why, he
Who knows, and knowing,
never once forgets
The pedigree divine of his own soul,
Can
conquer, shape, and govern destiny,
And use vast space as ’twere
a board for chess
With stars for pawns; can change his horoscope
To
suit his will; turn failure to success,
And from preordained sorrows,
harvest joy.
There is no puny planet, sun, or moon,
Or zodiacal sign which
can control
The God in us! If we bring that to bear
Upon
events, we mould them to our wish;
’Tis when the infinite
’neath the finite gropes
That men are governed by their horoscopes.
Under the snow, in the dark and the cold,
A
pale little sprout was humming;
Sweetly it sang, ’neath the
frozen mould,
Of the beautiful days that were
coming.
“How foolish your songs!” said a lump of clay;
“What
is there, I ask, to prove them?
Just look at the walls between
you and the day,
Now, have you the strength to
move them?”
But under the ice and under the snow
The pale
little sprout kept singing,
“I cannot tell how, but I know,
I know,
I know what the days are bringing.
“Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,
Blue,
blue skies above me,
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees
And
the great glad sun to love me.”
A pebble spoke next: “You are quite absurd,”
It
said, “with your song’s insistence;
For I never
saw a tree or a bird,
So of course there are
none in existence.”
“But I know, I know,” the tendril cried,
In
beautiful sweet unreason;
Till lo! from its prison, glorified,
It
burst in the glad spring season.
The times are not degenerate. Man’s
faith
Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed
Can
take from the immortal soul the need
Of that
supreme Creator, God. The wraith
Of dead beliefs we cherished
in our youth
Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.
Man may not worship at the ancient shrine
Prone
on his face, in self-accusing scorn.
That night is past.
He hails a fairer morn,
And knows himself a something
all divine;
Not humble worm whose heritage is sin,
But, born
of God, he feels the Christ withal.
Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time,
But
deep his reverence for that mighty force,
That occult working of
the great All-Source,
Which makes the present
era so sublime.
Religion now means something high and broad.
And
man stood never half so near to God.
Beside us in our seeking after pleasures,
Through
all our restless striving after fame,
Through all our search for
worldly gains and treasures,
There walketh one
whom no man likes to name.
Silent he follows, veiled of form and
feature,
Indifferent if we sorrow or rejoice,
Yet
that day comes when every living creature
Must
look upon his face and hear his voice.
When that day comes to you, and Death, unmasking,
Shall
bar your path, and say, “Behold the end,”
What are
the questions that he will be asking
About your
past? Have you considered, friend?
I think he will not chide
you for your sinning,
Nor for your creeds or
dogmas will he care;
He will but ask, “From your life’s
first beginning
How many burdens have you helped
to bear?”
The uses of sorrow I comprehend
Better and better at each year’s
end.
Deeper and deeper I seem to see
Why and wherefore it has to
be.
Only after the dark, wet days
Do we fully rejoice in the sun’s
bright rays.
Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast
Than the sated gourmand’s
finest repast.
The faintest cheer sounds never amiss
To the actor who once
has heard a hiss.
To one who the sadness of freedom knows,
Light seem the fetters
love may impose.
And he who has dwelt with his heart alone,
Hears all the music
in friendship’s tone.
So better and better I comprehend
How sorrow ever would be our
friend.
’Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let
No
“If” arise on which to lay the blame.
Man makes a mountain
of that puny word,
But, like a blade of grass before the scythe,
It
falls and withers when a human will,
Stirred by creative force,
sweeps toward its aim.
Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance
Is but
the toy of genius. When a soul
Burns with a god-like purpose
to achieve,
All obstacles between it and its goal
Must vanish
as the dew before the sun.
“If” is the motto of the dilettante
And idle dreamer;
’tis the poor excuse
Of mediocrity. The truly great
Know
not the word, or know it but to scorn,
Else had Joan of Arc a peasant
died,
Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.
There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
Just two kinds
of people, no more, I say.
Not the sinner and saint, for it’s well understood
The
good are half bad, and the bad are half good.
Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man’s wealth
You
must first know the state of his conscience and health.
Not the humble and proud, for, in life’s little span,
Who
puts on vain airs is not counted a man.
Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each
man his laughter, and each man his tears.
No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean
Are the people who
lift, and the people who lean.
Wherever you go, you will find the earth’s masses
Are
always divided in just these two classes.
And, oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,
There’s
only one lifter to twenty who lean.
In which class are you? Are you easing the load
Of overtaxed
lifters, who toil down the road?
Or are you a leaner, who lets others share
Your portion of labour
and worry and care?
Our thoughts are moulding 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 shrivelled 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.”
Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,
Is
inspiration, eager to pursue,
But rather like a maiden, fond, yet
coy,
Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.
Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire,
In
passing by, but when she turns her face,
Thou must persist and
seek her with desire,
If thou wouldst win the
favour of her grace.
And if, like some winged bird, she cleaves the air,
And
leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth,
Still must thou strive
to follow even there,
That she may know thy valour
and thy worth.
Then shall she come unveiling all her charms,
Giving
thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears;
Then shalt thou clasp
her with possessing arms,
The while she murmurs
music in thine ears.
But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek,
She
shall flee from thee over hill and glade,
So must thou seek and
ever seek and seek
For each new conquest of this
phantom maid
Should some great angel say to me to-morrow,
“Thou
must re-tread thy pathway from the start,
But God will grant, in
pity, for thy sorrow,
Some one dear wish, the
nearest to thy heart.”
This were my wish! - from my life’s dim beginning
Let
be what has been! wisdom planned the whole
My want, my woe,
my errors, and my sinning,
All, all were needed
lessons for my soul.
Of all the blessings which my life has known,
I value most,
and most praise God for three:
Want, Loneliness, and Pain, those
comrades true,
Who masqueraded in the garb of foes
For many a year, and filled
my heart with dread.
Yet fickle joys, like false, pretentious friends,
Have
proved less worthy than this trio. First,
Want taught me labour, led me up the steep
And toilsome paths
to hills of pure delight,
Trod only by the feet that know fatigue,
And
yet press on until the heights appear.
Then loneliness and hunger of the heart
Sent me upreaching to
the realms of space,
Till all the silences grew eloquent,
And
all their loving forces hailed me friend.
Last, pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staff
Of close
communion with the over-soul,
That I might lean upon it to the
end,
And find myself made strong for any strife.
And then these three who had pursued my steps
Like stern, relentless
foes, year after year,
Unmasked, and turned their faces full on
me,
And lo! they were divinely beautiful,
For through them
shone the lustrous eyes of Love.
You never can tell when you send a word,
Like
an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
Just
where it may chance to go!
It may pierce the breast of your dearest
friend,
Tipped with its poison or balm;
To
a stranger’s heart in life’s great mart,
It
may carry its pain or its calm.
You never can tell when you do an act
Just
what the result will be;
But with every deed you are sowing a seed,
Though
the harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
In
God’s productive soil.
You may not know, but the tree shall
grow,
With shelter for those who toil.
You never can tell what your thoughts will do,
In
bringing you hate or love;
For thoughts are things, and their airy
wings
Are swifter than carrier doves.
They
follow the law of the universe -
Each thing must
create its kind;
And they speed o’er the track to bring you
back
Whatever went out from your mind.
Here, in the heart of the world,
Here, in
the noise and the din,
Here, where our spirits were hurled
To
battle with sorrow and sin,
This is the place and the spot
For
knowledge of infinite things
This is the kingdom where Thought
Can
conquer the prowess of kings
Wait for no heavenly life,
Seek for no temple
alone;
Here, in the midst of the strife,
Know
what the sages have known.
See what the Perfect Ones saw -
God
in the depth of each soul,
God as the light and the law,
God
as beginning and goal.
Earth is one chamber of Heaven,
Death is no
grander than birth.
Joy in the life that was given,
Strive
for perfection on earth;
Here, in the turmoil and roar,
Show
what it is to be calm;
Show how the spirit can soar
And
bring hack its healing and balm.
Stand not aloof nor apart,
Plunge in the thick
of the fight;
There, in the street and the mart,
That
is the place to do right.
Not in some cloister or cave,
Not
in some kingdom above,
Here, on this side of the grave,
Here,
should we labour and love.
However skilled and strong art thou, my foe,
However fierce
is thy relentless hate,
Though firm thy hand, and strong thy aim,
and straight
Thy poisoned arrow leaves the bended bow,
To pierce the target of my heart, ah! know
I
am the master yet of my own fate.
Thou canst
not rob me of my best estate,
Though fortune, fame, and friends,
yea, love shall go.
Not to the dust shall my true self be hurled,
Nor
shall I meet thy worst assaults dismayed;
When
all things in the balance are well weighed,
There is but one great
danger in the world -
Thou canst not force
my soul to wish thee ill,
That is the only
evil that can kill.
“All that I ask,” says Love, “is
just to stand
And gaze, unchided, deep in thy
dear eyes;
For in their depths lies largest Paradise.
Yet,
if perchance one pressure of thy hand
Be granted
me, then joy I thought complete
Were
still more sweet.
“All that I ask,” says Love, “all
that I ask,
Is just thy hand-clasp. Could
I brush thy cheek
As zephyrs brush a rose leaf,
words are weak
To tell the bliss in which my soul would bask.
There
is no language but would desecrate
A
joy so great.
“All that I ask, is just one tender touch
Of
that soft cheek. Thy pulsing palm in mine,
Thy
dark eyes lifted in a trust divine,
And those curled lips that
tempt me overmuch
Turned where I may not seize
the supreme bliss
Of one mad
kiss.
“All that I ask,” says Love, “of
life, of death,
Or of high heaven itself, is
just to stand,
Glance melting into glance, hand
twined in hand,
The while I drink the nectar of thy breath
In
one sweet kiss, but one, of all thy store,
I
ask no more.”
“All that I ask” - nay, self-deceiving
Love,
Reverse thy phrase, so thus the words may
fall,
In place of “all I ask,” say,
“I ask all,”
All that pertains to earth or soars above,
All
that thou wert, art, will be, body, soul,
Love
asks the whole,
If one poor burdened toiler o’er life’s road,
Who
meets us by the way,
Goes on less conscious of his galling load,
Then
life, indeed, does pay.
If we can show one troubled heart the gain
That
lies alway in loss,
Why, then, we too are paid for all the pain
Of
bearing life’s hard cross.
If some despondent soul to hope is stirred,
Some
sad lip made to smile,
By any act of ours, or any word,
Then,
life has been worth while.
I wandered o’er the vast green plains of youth,
And searched
for Pleasure. On a distant height
Fame’s silhouette
stood sharp against the skies.
Beyond vast crowds that thronged
a broad highway
I caught the glimmer of a golden goal,
While
from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.
Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love
With all the
haughty insolence of youth,
As past her bower I strode to seek
my goal.
“Now will I climb to glory’s dizzy height,”
I
said, “for there above the common way
Doth pleasure dwell
companioned by the skies.”
But when I reached that summit near the skies,
So far from man
I seemed, so far from Love -
“Not here,” I cried, “doth
Pleasure find her way.”
Seen from the distant borderland
of youth,
Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height,
But
frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.
Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal,
Dear to all
sense - sunk souls beneath the skies.
Gold tempts the artist from
the lofty height,
Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love,
Gold
buys the fresh, ingenuous heart of youth,
“And gold,”
I said, “will show me Pleasure’s way.”
But ah! the soil and discord of that way,
Where savage hordes
rushed headlong to the goal,
Dead to the best impulses of their
youth,
Blind to the azure beauty of the skies;
Dulled to the
voice of conscience and of love,
They wandered far from Truth’s
eternal height.
Then Truth spoke to me from that noble height,
Saying, “Thou
didst pass Pleasure on the way,
She with the yearning eyes so full
of Love,
Whom thou disdained to seek for glory’s goal.
Two
blending paths beneath God’s arching skies
Lead straight
to Pleasure. Ah! blind heart of youth,
Not up fame’s
height, not toward the base god’s goal,
Doth Pleasure make
her way, but ’neath calm skies
Where Duty walks with Love
in endless youth.”
The fields were bleak and sodden.
Not a wing
Or
note enlivened the depressing wood;
A soiled and sullen, stubborn
snowdrift stood
Beside the roadway. Winds came muttering
Of
storms to be, and brought the chilly sting
Of
icebergs in their breath. Stalled cattle mooed
Forth
plaintive pleadings for the earth’s green food.
No gleam,
no hint of hope in anything.
The sky was blank and ashen, like the face
Of
some poor wretch who drains life’s cup too fast
Yet, swaying
to and fro, as if to fling
About chilled Nature its lithe arms
of grace,
Smiling with promise in the wintry
blast,
The optimistic Willow spoke of spring.
The pessimistic locust, last to leaf,
Though all the world is
glad, still talks of grief.
However the battle is ended,
Though proudly
the victor comes
With fluttering flags and prancing nags
And
echoing roll of drums,
Still truth proclaims this motto
In
letters of living light, -
No question is ever settled
Until
it is settled right.
Though the heel of the strong oppressor
May
grind the weak in the dust;
And the voices of fame with one acclaim
May
call him great and just,
Let those who applaud take warning.
And
keep this motto in sight, -
No question is ever settled
Until
it is settled right.
Let those who have failed take courage;
Though
the enemy seems to have won,
Though his ranks are strong, if he
be in the wrong
The battle is not yet done;
For,
sure as the morning follows
The darkest hour
of the night,
No question is ever settled
Until
it is settled right.
O man bowed down with labour!
O woman young,
yet old!
O heart oppressed in the toiler’s breast
And
crushed by the power of gold
Keep on with your weary battle
Against
triumphant might;
No question is ever settled
Until
it is settled right.
Let no man pray that he know not sorrow,
Let
no soul ask to be free from pain,
For the gall of to-day is the
sweet of to-morrow,
And the moment’s loss
is the lifetime’s gain.
Through want of a thing does its worth redouble,
Through
hunger’s pangs does the feast content,
And only the heart
that has harboured trouble
Can fully rejoice
when joy is sent.
Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics
Of
grief, and yearning, and need, and strife,
For the rarest chords
in the soul’s harmonics
Are found in the
minor strains of life.
We must not force events, but rather make
The heart soil ready
for their coming, as
The earth spreads carpets for the feet of
Spring,
Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost,
Prepares
for winter. Should a July noon
Burst suddenly upon a frozen
world
Small joy would follow, even though that world
Were
longing for the Summer. Should the sting
Of sharp December
pierce the heart of June,
What death and devastation would ensue!
All
things are planned. The most majestic sphere
That whirls
through space is governed and controlled
By supreme law, as is
the blade of grass
Which through the bursting bosom of the earth
Creeps
up to kiss the light. Poor, puny man
Alone doth strive and
battle with the Force
Which rules all lives and worlds, and he
alone
Demands effect before producing cause.
How vain the
hope! We cannot harvest joy
Until we sow the seed, and God
alone
Knows when that seed has ripened. Oft we stand
And
watch the ground with anxious, brooding eyes,
Complaining of the
slow, unfruitful yield,
Not knowing that the shadow of ourselves
Keeps
off the sunlight and delays result.
Sometimes our fierce impatience
of desire
Doth like a sultry May force tender shoots
Of half-formed
pleasures and unshaped events
To ripen prematurely, and we reap
But
disappointment; or we rot the germs
With briny tears ere they have
time to grow.
While stars are born and mighty planets die
And
hissing comets scorch the brow of space,
The Universe keeps its
eternal calm.
Through patient preparation, year on year,
The
earth endures the travail of the Spring
And Winter’s desolation.
So our souls
In grand submission to a higher law
Should move
serene through all the ills of life
Believing them masked joys.
In golden youth when seems the earth
A Summer-land of singing
mirth,
When souls are glad and hearts are light,
And not a
shadow lurks in sight,
We do not know it, but there lieu
Somewhere
veiled under evening skies
A garden which we all must see -
The
garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways,
Love lends a halo to our days;
Light
sorrows sail like clouds afar,
We laugh, and say how strong we
are.
We hurry on; and hurrying, go
Close to the borderland
of woe
That waits for you, and waits for me -
Forever waits
Gethsemane.
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams,
Bridged over by
our broken dreams;
Behind the misty caps of years,
Beyond
the great salt fount of tears,
The garden lies. Strive as
you may,
You cannot miss it in your way;
All paths that have
been, or shall be,
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.
All those who journey, soon or late,
Must pass within the garden’s
gate;
Must kneel alone in darkness there,
And battle with
some fierce despair.
God pity those who cannot say,
“Not
mine but Thine”; who only pray
“Let this cup pass,”
and cannot see
The purpose in Gethsemane.
God measures souls by their capacity
For entertaining his best
Angel, Love.
Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,
Who is
all Love, or Nothing.
He who sits
And looks out
on the palpitating world,
And feels his heart swell in him large
enough
To hold all men within it, he is near
His great Creator’s
standard, though he dwells
Outside the pale of churches, and knows
not
A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line
Of Scripture even.
What God wants of us
Is that outreaching bigness that ignores
All
littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,
And clasps all Earth and
Heaven in its embrace.
I hold it the duty of one who is gifted
And
specially dowered in all men’s sight,
To know no rest till
his life is lifted
Fully up to his great gifts’
height.
He must mould the man into rare completeness,
For
gems are set only in gold refined.
He must fashion his thoughts
into perfect sweetness.
And cast out folly and
pride from his mind.
For he who drinks from a god’s gold fountain
Of
art or music or rhythmic song
Must sift from his soul the chaff
of malice,
And weed from his heart the roots
of wrong.
Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting,
And
not like gems in a beggar’s hands!
And the toil must be constant
and unremitting
Which lifts up the king to the
crown’s demands.
An artist toiled over his pictures;
He laboured
by night and by day,
He struggled for glory and honour
But
the world, it had nothing to say.
His walls were ablaze with the
splendours
We see in the beautiful skies;
But
the world beheld only the colours
That were made
out of chemical dyes.
Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered;
He
passed through the valley of grief.
Again he toiled over his canvas,
Since
in labour alone was relief.
It showed not the splendour of colours
Of
those of his earlier years;
But the world? the world bowed down
before it
Because it was painted with tears.
A poet was gifted with genius,
And he sang,
and he sang all the days.
He wrote for the praise of the people,
But
the people accorded no praise.
Oh! his songs were as blithe as
the morning,
As sweet as the music of birds;
But
the world had no homage to offer,
Because they
were nothing but words.
Time sped. And the poet through sorrow
Became
like his suffering kind.
Again he toiled over his poems
To
lighten the grief of his mind.
They were not so flowing and rhythmic
As
those of his earlier years;
But the world? lo! it offered its homage,
Because
they were written in tears.
So ever the price must be given
By those seeking
glory in art;
So ever the world is repaying
The
grief-stricken, suffering heart.
The happy must ever be humble;
Ambition
must wait for the years
Ere hoping to win the approval
Of
a world that looks on through its tears.
What does our country need? No armies standing
With
sabres gleaming ready for the fight;
Not increased navies, skilful
and commanding,
To bound the waters with an iron
might;
Not haughty men with glutted purses trying
To
purchase souls, and keep the power of place;
Not jewelled dolls
with one another vying
For palms of beauty, elegance,
and grace.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,
With
that rare meekness, born of gentleness;
Women whose lives are pure
and clean and holy,
The women whom all little
children bless;
Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,
With
finest scorn for all things low and mean;
Women who hold the names
of wife and mother
Far nobler than the title
of a queen.
Oh! these are they who mould the men of story,
These
mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,
Who, worn and weary,
ask no greater glory
Than making some young soul
the home of truth;
Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing
The
seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,
And, patient, watch the beauteous
harvest growing
And weed out tares which crafty
hands cast in;
Women who do not hold the gift of beauty
As
some rare treasure to be bought and sold.
But guard it as a precious
aid to duty -
The outer framing of the inner
gold;
Women who, low above their cradles bending,
Let
flattery’s voice go by, and give no heed,
While their pure
prayers like incense are ascending
These
are our country’s pride, our country’s need,
O Science, reaching backward through the distance,
Most
earnest child of God,
Exposing all the secrets of existence,
With
thy divining rod,
I bid thee speed up to the heights supernal,
Clear
thinker, ne’er sufficed;
Go seek and bind the laws and truths
eternal,
But leave me Christ.
Upon the vanity of pious sages
Let in the
light of day;
Break down the superstitions of all ages -
Thrust
bigotry away;
Stride on, and bid all stubborn foes defiance,
Let
Truth and Reason reign:
But I beseech thee, O Immortal Science,
Let
Christ remain.
What canst thou give to help me bear my crosses,
In
place of Him, my Lord?
And what to recompense for all my losses,
And
bring me sweet reward?
Thou couldst not with thy clear,
cold eyes of reason,
Thou couldst not comfort
me
Like One who passed through that tear-blotted season
In
sad Gethsemane!
Through all the weary, wearing hour of sorrow,
What
word that thou hast said
Would make me strong to wait for some
to-morrow
When I should find my dead?
When
I am weak, and desolate, and lonely -
And prone
to follow wrong?
Not thou, O Science - Christ, my Saviour, only
Can
make me strong.
Thou art so cold, so lofty, and so distant,
Though
great my need might be,
No prayer, however constant and persistent,
Could
bring thee down to me.
Christ stands so near, to help me through
each hour,
To guide me day by day
O Science,
sweeping all before thy power -
Leave Christ,
I pray!
The mighty conflict, which we call existence,
Doth
wear upon the body and the soul,
Our vital forces wasted in resistance,
So
much there is to conquer and control.
The rock which meets the billows with defiance,
Undaunted
and unshaken day by day,
In spite of its unyielding self-reliance,
Is
by the warfare surely worn away.
And there are depths and heights of strong emotions
That
surge at times within the human breast,
More fierce than all the
tides of all the oceans
Which sweep on ever in
divine unrest.
I sometimes think the rock worn with adventures,
And
sad with thoughts of conflicts yet to be,
Must envy the frail reed
which no one censures,
When, overcome, ’tis
swallowed by the sea.
This life is all resistance and repression.
Dear
God, if in that other world unseen,
Not rest we find, but new life
and progression,
Grant us a respite in the grave
between.
O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
Though
your tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
Of
your eyes, your beautiful eyes
Your
tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
Though
I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper far
By
your sad, reproving eyes,
Your
sorrowful, troubled eyes.
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
Above,
in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
But
only smile with their eyes -
Smile
on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
On
the winged wind speech flies.
But I read the truth of your noble
heart
In your soulful, speaking eyes -
In
your deep and beautiful eyes.
If all the ships I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to
me,
Ah, well! the harbour could not hold
So many sails as
there would be
If all my ships came in from sea.
If half my ships came home from sea,
And brought their precious
freight to me,
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great
As
any king who sits in state -
So rich the treasures that would be
In
half my ships now out at sea.
If just one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to
me,
Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown
For if the
others all went down,
Still rich and proud and glad I’d be
If
that one ship came back to me.
If that one ship went down at sea,
And all the others came to
me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
With glory,
honours, riches, gold,
The poorest soul on earth I’d be
If
that one ship came not to me.
O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free -
Blow all my ships
safe home to me!
But if thou sendest some a-wrack,
To never
more come sailing back,
Send any - all that skim the sea,
But
bring my love-ship home to me.
The sands upon the ocean side
That change about with every tide,
And
never true to one abide,
A woman’s love
I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain,
That sing the same alluring
strain
To every grass blade on the plain -
A
woman’s love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day
That comes to warm you with its
ray,
But while you smile has flown away -
A
woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart,
But gave her skill, and tact,
and art,
And so she lives, and plays her part.
We
must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man - but just to hear
The praise he whispers in
her ear;
Herself, not him, she holdeth dear -
O
fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs
The love of strong hearts
in sweet draughts,
Then throws them lightly by and laughs,
Too
weak to understand their pain.
As changeful as the winds that blow
From every region to and
fro,
Devoid of heart, she cannot know
The
suffering of a human heart.
Dear love, if you and I could sail away,
With
snowy pennons to the winds unfurled,
Across the waters of some
unknown bay,
And find some island far from all
the world;
If we could dwell there, evermore alone,
While
unrecorded years slip by apace,
Forgetting and forgotten and unknown
By
aught save native song-birds of the place;
If Winter never visited that land,
And Summer’s
lap spilled o’er with fruits and flowers,
And tropic trees
cast shade on every hand,
And twinèd boughs
formed sleep-inviting bowers;
If from the fashions of the world set free,
And
hid away from all its jealous strife,
I lived alone for you, and
you for me -
Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were
wedded life.
But since we dwell here in the crowded way,
Where
hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold,
And all is commonplace
and work-a-day
As soon as love’s young
honeymoon grows old;
Since fashion rules and nature yields to art,
And
life is hurt by daily jar and fret,
’Tis best to shut such
dreams down in the heart
And go our ways alone,
love, and forget.
Let us clear a little space,
And make Love a burial-place.
He is dead, dear, as you see,
And he wearies you and me.
Growing heavier, day by day,
Let us bury him, I say.
Wings of dead white butterflies,
These shall shroud him, as
he lies
In his casket rich and rare,
Made of finest maiden-hair.
With the pollen of the rose
Let us his white eyelids close.
Put the rose thorn in his hand,
Shorn of leaves - you understand.
Let some holy water fall
On his dead face, tears of gall -
As we kneel to him and say,
“Dreams to dreams,”
and turn away.
Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,
They will lower him to
the dust.
Let us part here with a kiss -
You go that way, I go this.
Since we buried Love to-day
We will walk a separate way.
Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold.
Wealth
breeds false aims, and pride, and selfishness;
In those serene,
Arcadian days of old
Men gave no thought to princely
homes and dress.
The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height
Lived
only for dear love and love’s delight.
Love
is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we care for fame?
Ambition
is a most unpleasant guest:
It lures us with the glory of a name
Far
from the happy haunts of peace and rest.
Let us stay here in this
secluded place
Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace!
Love
is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we strive for power?
It
brings men only envy and distrust.
The poor world’s homage
pleases but an hour,
And earthly honours vanish
in the dust.
The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;
Let
me be loved, and let who will be great.
Love
is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we ask for more?
What
greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
What better boon of all
their precious store
Than our fond hearts that
love and love again?
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
And
life is fair and all the world complete:
Love
is enough!
Life is a privilege. Its youthful days
Shine with the
radiance of continuous Mays.
To live, to breathe, to wonder and
desire,
To feed with dreams the heart’s perpetual fire,
To
thrill with virtuous passions, and to glow
With great ambitions
- in one hour to know
The depths and heights of feeling - God!
in truth,
How beautiful, how beautiful is youth!
Life is a privilege. Like some rare rose
The mysteries
of the human mind unclose.
What marvels lie in earth, and air,
and sea!
What stores of knowledge wait our opening key!
What
sunny roads of happiness lead out
Beyond the realms of indolence
and doubt!
And what large pleasures smile upon and bless
The
busy avenues of usefulness!
Life is a privilege. Though noontide fades
And shadows
fall along the winding glades,
Though joy-blooms wither in the
autumn air,
Yet the sweet scent of sympathy is there.
Pale
sorrow leads us closer to our kind,
And in the serious hours of
life we find
Depths in the souls of men which lend new worth
And
majesty to this brief span of earth.
Life is a privilege. If some sad fate
Sends us alone to
seek the exit gate,
If men forsake us and as shadows fall,
Still
does the supreme privilege of all
Come in that reaching upward
of the soul
To find the welcoming Presence at the goal,
And
in the Knowledge that our feet have trod
Paths that led from, and
must wind back, to God.
Sirs, when you pity us, I say
You waste your pity. Let
it stay,
Well corked and stored upon your shelves,
Until you
need it for yourselves.
We do appreciate God’s thought
In forming you, before
He brought
Us into life. His art was crude,
But oh!
so virile in its rude,
Large, elemental strength; and then
He learned His trade in
making men,
Learned how to mix and mould the clay
And fashion
in a finer way.
How fine that skilful way can be
You need but lift your eyes
to see;
And we are glad God placed you there
To lift your
eyes and find us fair.
Apprentice labour though you were,
He made you great enough
to stir
The best and deepest depths of us,
And we are glad
He made you thus.
Aye! we are glad of many things;
God strung our hearts with
such fine strings
The least breath moves them, and we hear
Music
where silence greets your ear.
We suffer so? But women’s souls,
Like violet-powder
dropped on coals,
Give forth their best in anguish. Oh
The
subtle secrets that we know
Of joy in sorrow, strange delights
Of ecstasy in pain-filled
nights,
And mysteries of gain in loss
Known but to Christ
upon the cross!
Our tears are pitiful to you?
Look how the heaven-reflecting
dew
Dissolves its life in tears. The sand
Meanwhile
lies hard upon the strand.
How could your pity find a place
For us, the mothers of the
race?
Men may be fathers unaware,
So poor the title is you
wear.
But mothers - who that crown adorns
Knows all its mingled blooms
and thorns,
And she whose feet that pain hath trod
Hath walked
upon the heights with God.
No, offer us not pity’s cup.
There is no looking down
or up
Between us; eye looks straight in eye:
Born equals,
so we live and die.
You call me an angel of love and of light,
A
being of goodness and heavenly fire,
Sent out from God’s
kingdom to guide you aright,
In paths where your
spirit may mount and aspire,
You say that I glow like a star on
its course,
Like a ray from the altar, a spark from the source.
Now list to my answer - let all the world hear it,
I
speak unafraid what I know to be true -
A pure, faithful love is
the creative spirit
Which make women angels!
I live but in you.
We are bound soul to soul by life’s holiest
laws;
If I am an angel - why, you are the cause.
As my ship skims the sea, I look up from the deck.
Fair,
firm at the wheel shines Love’s beautiful form.
And shall
I curse the bark that last night went to wreck
By
the pilot abandoned to darkness and storm?
My craft is no stauncher,
she too had been lost
Had the wheelman deserted, or slept at his
post.
I laid down the wealth of my soul at your feet
(Some
woman does this for some man every day).
No desperate creature
who walks in the street
Has a wickeder heart
than I might have, I say,
Had you wantonly misused the treasures
you won -
As so many men with heart-riches have done.
This fire from God’s altar, this holy love-flame,
That
burns like sweet incense forever for you,
Might now be a wild conflagration
of shame,
Had you tortured my heart, or been
base or untrue.
For angels and devils are cast in one mould,
Till
love guides them upward or downward, I hold.
I tell you the women who make fervent wives
And
sweet tender mothers, had Fate been less fair,
Are the women who
might have abandoned their lives
To the madness
that springs from and ends in despair.
As the fire on the hearth
which sheds brightness around,
Neglected, may level the walls to
the ground.
The world makes grave errors in judging these things.
Great
good and great evil are born in one breast:
Love horns us and hoofs
us, or gives us our wings,
And the best could
be worst, as the worst could be best.
You must thank your own worth
for what I grew to be,
For the demon lurked under the angel in
me.
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.
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