The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Sentiment, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (#9 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 Sentiment Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox Release Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6617] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on December 31, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Contents:
Double Carnations
Never
Mind
Two Women
It All
Will Come Out Right
A Warning
Shrines
The
Watcher
Swimming Song
The
Law
Love, Time, and Will
The
Two Ages
Couleur de Rose
Last
Love
Life’s Track
An
Ode to Time
Regret and Remorse
Easter
Morn
Blind
The Yellow-covered
Almanac
The Little White Hearse
Realisation
Success
The
Lady and the Dame
Heaven and Hell
Love’s
Supremacy
The Eternal Will
Insight
A
Woman’s Love
The Pæan of Peace
“Has
Been”
Duty’s Path
March
The
End of the Summer
Sun Shadows
“He
that Looketh”
An Erring Woman’s Love
A
Song of Republics
Memorial Day - 1892
When
baby Souls Sail Out
To Another Woman’s
Baby
Diamonds
Rubies
Sapphires
Turquoise
Reform
A
Minor Chord
Death’s Protest
September
Wail
of an Old-timer
Was, Is, and Yet-to-be
Mistakes
Dual
The
All-creative Spark
Be not Content
Action
Two
Roses
Satiety
A Solar
Eclipse
A Suggestion
The
Depths
Life’s Opera
The
Salt Sea-wind
New Year
Concentration
Thoughts
Luck
A wild Pink nestled in a garden bed,
A rich
Carnation flourished high above her,
One day
he chanced to see her pretty head
And leaned and looked again,
and grew to love her.
The Moss (her humble mother) saw with fear
The
ardent glances of the princely stranger;
With
many an anxious thought and dewy tear
She sought to hide her darling
from this danger.
The gardener-guardian of this noble bud
A
cruel trellis interposed between them.
No common
Pink should mate with royal blood,
He said, and sought in every
way to wean them.
The poor Pink pined and faded day by day:
Her
restless lover from his prison bower
Called in
a priestly bee who passed that way,
And sent a message to the sorrowing
flower.
The fainting Pink wept as the bee drew near,
Droning
his prayers, and begged him to confess her.
Her
weary mother, over-taxed by fear,
Slept, while the priest leaned
low to shrive and bless her.
But lo! ere long the tale went creeping out,
The
rich Carnation and the Pink were married!
The
cunning bee had brought the thing about
While Mamma Moss in Slumber’s
arms had tarried.
And proud descendants of that loving pair,
The
offspring of that true and ardent passion,
Are
famous for their beauty everywhere,
And leaders in the floral world
of fashion.
Whatever your work and whatever its worth,
No
matter how strong or clever,
Some one will sneer if you pause to
hear,
And scoff at your best endeavour.
For
the target art has a broad expanse,
And wherever
you chance to hit it,
Though close be your aim to the bull’s-eye
fame,
There are those who will never admit it.
Though the house applauds while the artist plays,
And
a smiling world adores him,
Somebody is there with an ennuied air
To
say that the acting bores him.
For the tower of art has a lofty
spire,
With many a stair and landing,
And
those who climb seem small oft-time
To one at
the bottom standing.
So work along in your chosen niche
With a
steady purpose to nerve you;
Let nothing men say who pass your
way
Relax your courage or swerve you.
The
idle will flock by the Temple of Art
For just
the pleasure of gazing;
But climb to the top and do not stop,
Though
they may not all be praising.
I know two women, and one is chaste
And cold as the snows on
a winter waste,
Stainless ever in act and thought
(As a man,
born dumb, in speech errs not).
But she has malice toward her kind,
A
cruel tongue and a jealous mind.
Void of pity and full of greed,
She
judges the world by her narrow creed;
A brewer of quarrels, a breeder
of hate,
Yet she holds the key to “Society’s”
Gate.
The other woman, with heart of flame,
Went mad for a love that
marred her name:
And out of the grave of her murdered faith
She
rose like a soul that has passed through death.
Her aims are noble,
her pity so broad,
It covers the world like the mercy of God.
A
soother of discord, a healer of woes,
Peace follows her footsteps
wherever she goes.
The worthier life of the two, no doubt,
And
yet “Society” locks her out.
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 Labour
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.
There was a flame, oh! such a tiny flame -
One
fleeting hour had spanned its birth and death,
But
for a silly child with playful breath
Who fanned it into fury.
It became
A mighty conflagration. Ah, the cost!
House,
home, and thoughtless child alike were lost.
Lady beware. Fan not the harmless glow
Of
admiration into ardent love,
Lean not with red
curled smiling lips above
The flickering spark of sinless flame,
and blow,
Lest in the sudden waking of desire
Thou, like the
child, shalt perish in the fire.
About a holy shrine or sacred place,
Where
many hearts have bowed in earnest prayer,
The loveliest spirits
congregate from space,
And bring their sweet,
uplifting influence there.
If in your chamber you pray oft and well,
Soon
will these angel-messengers arrive
And make their home with you,
and where they dwell
All worthy toil and purposes
shall thrive.
I know a humble, plainly furnished room,
So
thronged with presences serene and bright,
The heaviest heart therein
forgets its gloom
As in some gorgeous temple
filled with light.
Those heavenly spirits, beauteous and divine,
Live
only in an atmosphere of prayer;
Make for yourself a sacred, fervent
shrine,
And you will find them swiftly flocking
there.
She gave her soul and body for a carriage,
And
livened lackey with a vacant grin,
And all the rest - house, lands
- and called it marriage:
The bargain made, a
husband was thrown in.
And now, despite her luxury, she’s faded,
Gone
is the bloom that was so fresh and bright;
She has the dark-rimmed
eye, the countenance jaded,
Of one who watches
with the sick at night.
Ah, heaven, she does! her sick heart, sick and dying,
Beyond
the aid of human skill to save,
In that cold room her breast is
hourly lying,
And her grim thoughts crowd near
to dig its grave.
And yet it lingers, suffering and wailing,
As
sick hearts will that feed upon despair,
And that lone watcher,
unrelieved, is paling
With vigils that no pitying
soul can share.
Ah, lady! it is hardly what you thought it,
This
life of luxury and social power;
You gave yourself as principal,
and bought it,
But God extracts the interest
hour by hour.
I am coming, coming to thee,
My
strong-armed lover, the Sea!
On thy great broad breast I will lie
and rest,
And thou shalt talk to me.
I have come to thee, all unsought,
I
have stolen an hour from thought,
And peace and power thou canst
give in that hour,
Which thy rival Earth gives
not.
Alone here, under the sky,
And
the whole world drifting by!
Thy breast of brine thrills close
to mine,
While the cloudless sun sails high.
I fly, but thou givest chase -
Thy
kisses are on my face!
Be bold and free as thou wilt, O Sea,
There
is life in thy close embrace.
Throat and cheek and tress
Are
damp where thy salt lips press!
There is strength and bliss in
thy daring kiss,
And joy in thy bold caress.
And what is the Earth to me!
I
have left it all, O Sea!
With its dust and soil and strife and
toil,
For one glad hour with thee.
The sun may be clouded, yet ever the sun
Will sweep on its course
till the cycle is run.
And when into chaos the systems are hurled,
Again
shall the Builder reshape a new world.
Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal;
Move on, for
the orbit is fixed for your soul.
And though it may lead into darkness
of night,
The torch of the Builder shall give it new light.
You were, and you will be: know this while you are.
Your spirit
has travelled both long and afar.
It came from the Source, to the
Source it returns;
The spark that was lighted, eternally burns.
It slept in the jewel, it leaped in the wave,
It roamed in the
forest, it rose in the grave,
It took on strange garbs for long
æons of years,
And now in the soul of yourself it appears.
From body to body your spirit speeds on;
It seeks a new form
when the old one is gone;
And the form that it finds is the fabric
you wrought
On the loom of the mind, with the fibre of thought.
As dew is drawn upward, in rain to descend,
Your thoughts drift
away and in destiny blend.
You cannot escape them; or petty, or
great,
Or evil, or noble, they fashion your fate.
Somewhere on some planet, sometime and somehow,
Your life will
reflect all the thoughts of your now.
The law is unerring; no blood
can atone;
The structure you rear you must live in alone.
From cycle to cycle, through time and through space,
Your lives
with your longings will ever keep pace.
And all that you ask for,
and all you desire,
Must come at your bidding, as flames out of
fire.
Once list to that voice and all tumult is done,
Your life is
the life of the Infinite One;
In the hurrying race you are conscious
of pause,
With love for the purpose and love for the cause.
You are your own devil, you are your own God,
You fashioned
the paths that your footsteps have trod,
And no one can save you
from error or sin,
Until you shall hark to the Spirit within.
A soul immortal, Time, God everywhere,
Without, within - how
can a heart despair,
Or talk of failure, obstacles, and doubt?
(What
proofs of God? The little seeds that sprout,
Life, and the
solar system, and their laws.
Nature? Ah, yes; but what was
Nature’s cause?)
All mighty words are short: God, life, and death,
War, peace,
and truth, are uttered in a breath.
And briefly said are love,
and will, and time;
Yet in them lies a majesty sublime.
Love is the vast constructive power of space;
Time is the hour
which calls it into place;
Will is the means of using time and
love,
And bringing forth the heart’s desires thereof.
The way is love, the time is now, and will
The patient method.
Let this knowledge fill
Thy consciousness, and fate and circumstance,
Environment,
and all the ills of chance
Must yield before the concentrated might
Of
those three words, as shadows yield to light.
Go, charge thyself with love; be infinite
And opulent with thy
large use of it:
’Tis from free sowing that full harvest
springs;
Love God and life and all created things.
Learn time’s great value; to this mandate bow,
The hour
of opportunity is Now,
And from thy will, as from a well-strung
bow,
Let the swift arrows of thy wishes go.
Though sent into
the distance and the dark,
The dawn shall prove thy arrows hit
the mark.
On great cathedral window I have seen
A summer sunset swoon
and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels
and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
With smiles undimmed by
half a thousand years,
From wall and niche have met my lifted gaze.
Sculpture
and carving and illumined page,
And the fair, lofty dreams of architects,
That
speak of beauty to the centuries -
All these have fed me with divine
repasts.
Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste,
The taste
of blood that stained that age of art.
Those glorious windows shine upon the black
And hideous structure
of the guillotine;
Beside the haloed countenance of saints
There
hangs the multiple and knotted lash.
The Christ of love, benign
and beautiful,
Looks at the torture-rack, by hate conceived
And
bigotry sustained. The prison cell,
With blood-stained walls,
where starving men went mad,
Lies under turrets matchless in their
grace.
God, what an age! How was it that You let
Colossal genius
and colossal crime
Walk for a hundred years across the earth,
Like
giant twins? How was it then that men,
Conceiving such vast
beauty for the world,
And such large hopes of heaven, could entertain
Such
hellish projects for their fellow-men?
How could the hand that,
with consummate skill
And loving patience, limned the luminous
page,
Drop pen and brush, and seize the branding-rod,
To scourge
a brother for his differing faith?
Not great this age in beauty or in art;
Nothing is wrought to-day
that shall endure,
For earth’s adornment, through long centuries
Not
ours the fervid worship of a God
That wastes its splendid opulence
on glass,
Leaving but hate, to give it mortal kin.
Yet great
this age: its mighty work is man
Knowing himself, the universal
life.
And great our faith, which shows itself in works
For
human freedom and for racial good.
The true religion lies in being
kind.
No age is greater than its faith is broad.
Through liberty
and love men climb to God.
I want more lives in which to love
This world
so full of beauty,
I want more days to use the ways
I
know of doing duty;
I ask no greater joy than this
(So
much I am life’s lover),
When I reach age to turn the page
And
read the story over.
(O love, stay near!)
O rapturous promise of the Spring!
O June
fulfilling after!
If Autumns sigh, when Summers die,
’Tis
drowned in Winter’s laughter.
O maiden dawns, O wifely noons,
O
siren sweet, sweet nights,
I’d want no heaven could earth
be given
Again with its delights
(If
love stayed near).
There are such glories for the eye,
Such pleasures
for the ear,
The senses reel with all they feel
And
see and taste and hear;
There are such ways of doing good,
Such
ways of being kind,
And bread that’s cast on waters fast
Comes
home again, I find.
(O love, stay near.)
There are such royal souls to know,
There
is so much to learn,
While secrets rest in Nature’s breast
And
unnamed stars still burn.
God toiled six days to make this earth,
I
think the good folks say -
Six lives we need to give full meed
Of
praise - one for each day
(If love stay near).
But oh! if love fled far away,
Or veiled his
face from me,
One life too much, why then were such
A
life as this would be.
With sullen May and blighted June,
Blurred
dawn and haggard night,
This dear old world in space were hurled
If
love lent not his light.
(O love, stay near!)
The first flower of the spring is not so fair
Or bright as one
the ripe midsummer brings.
The first faint note the forest warbler
sings
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare
As when, full
master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he
flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The
artist’s earliest effort, wrought with care,
The bard’s
first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil, seems
poor and tame,
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with
the passions of maturer years.
Let those who will demand the first
fond flame,
Give me the heart’s last love, for that
is best.
This game of life is a dangerous play,
Each human soul must
watch alway,
From the first to the very last.
I
care not however strong and pure -
Let no man say he is perfectly
sure
The dangerous reefs are past.
For many a rock may lurk near by,
That never is seen when the
tide is high -
Let no man dare to boast,
When
the hand is full of trumps - beware,
For that is the time when
thought and care
And nerve are needed most.
As the oldest jockey knows to his cost,
Full many a well-run
race is lost
A brief half length from the wire.
And
many a soul that has fought with sin,
And gained each battle, at
last gives in
To sudden, fierce desire.
And vain seems the effort of spur and whip,
Or the hoarse, hot
cry of the pallid lip,
When once we have fallen
back.
It is better to keep on stirrup and rein,
The steady
poise and the careful strain,
In speeding along
Life’s track.
A watchful eye and a strong, true hand
Will carry us under the
Judge’s stand,
If prayer, too, does its
part;
And little by little the struggling soul
Will grow and
strengthen and gain control
Over the passionate
heart.
Ho! sportsman Time, whose chargers fleet
The
moments, madly driven,
Beat in the dust beneath their feet
Sweet
hopes that years have given;
Turn, turn aside those reckless steeds,
Oh!
do not urge them my way;
There’s nothing that Time wants
or needs
In this contented by-way.
You have down-trodden, in your race,
So much
that proves your power,
Why not avoid my humble place?
Why
rob me of my dower?
With your vast cellars, cavern deep,
Packed
tier on tier with treasures,
You would not miss them should I keep
My
little store of pleasures.
As one who, frightened, flying, flings
Her
riches down at random,
Your course is paved with precious things
Life
casts before your tandem:
The warrior’s fame, the conqueror’s
crown,
Great creeds for ages cherished,
Beneath
your chariot-wheels were thrown,
And, crushed
to earth, they perished.
Although to just and generous deeds
Your heart
is not a stranger,
I have the feeling that one needs
To
guard his wealth from danger.
And though a most heroic light
Oft
on your pathway lingers,
I’d hide my treasures, if I might,
From
contact with your fingers.
You are the loyal friend of Truth,
Go seek
her, make her stronger,
And leave the remnant of my youth
To
me a little longer.
There’s work enough for you before
Eternity
shall wed you:
Why stoop to steal my simple store?
Why
make me shun and dread you?
You do not need my joys, I say,
Home, love,
and friends united -
I beg you turn and go the way
Where
wrong waits to be righted;
Or pause, and let us chat a while:
I’ll
listen - not too near you,
For oh! no matter how you smile,
I
fear you, Time, I fear you!
Regret with streaming eyes doth seem alway
A maiden widowed
on her wedding day.
While dark Remorse, with eyes too sad for tears,
A crushed,
desponding Magdalene appears.
One, with a hungering heart unsatisfied,
Mourns for imagined
joys that were denied.
The other, pierced by recollected sin,
Broods o’er the
scars of pleasures that have been.
A truth that has long lain buried
At Superstition’s
door,
I see, in the dawn uprising
In all
its strength once more.
Hidden away in the darkness,
By Ignorance
crucified,
Crushed under stones of dogmas -
Yet
lo! it has not died.
It stands in the light transfigured,
It speaks
from the heights above,
“Each soul is its own redeemer;
There
is no law but Love.”
And the spirits of men are gladdened
As they
welcome this Truth re-born
With its feet on the grave of Error
And
its eyes to the Easter Morn.
Whatever a man may think or feel
He can tell
to the world and it hears aright;
But it bids the woman conceal,
conceal,
And woe to the thoughts that at last
ignite.
She may serve up gossip or dwell on fashion,
Or
play the critic with speech unkind,
But alas for the woman who
speaks with passion!
For the world is blind -
for the world is blind.
It is woman who sits with her starved desire,
And
drinks to sorrow in cups of tears;
She reads by the light of her
soul on fire
The secrets of love through lonely
years:
But out of all she has felt or heard
Or
read by the glow of her soul’s white flame,
If she dare but
utter aloud one word -
How the world cries shame!
- how the world cries shame!
It cannot distinguish between the glow
Of
a gleaming star, in the sky of gold,
Or a spent cigar in the dust
below -
’Twixt unclad Eve or a wanton bold;
And
ever if woman speaks what she feels
(And feels
consistent with God’s great plan)
It has cast her under its
juggernaut wheels,
Since the world began - since
the world began.
I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwelling
To
daughter Susie’s stylish house right on the city street:
And
there was them before I came that sort of scared me, telling
How
I would find the town folks’ ways so difficult to meet;
They
said I’d have no comfort in the rustling, fixed-up throng,
And
I’d have to wear stiff collars every week-day, right along.
I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water;
I
like the racket and the noise and never tire of shows;
And there’s
no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter,
And
everything is right at hand and money freely flows;
And hired help
is all about, just listenin’ to my call -
But
I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.
The house is full of calendars from attic to the cellar,
They’re
painted in all colours and are fancy like to see,
But in this one
particular I’m not a modern feller,
And
the yellow-coloured almanac is good enough for me.
I’m used
to it, I’ve seen it round from boyhood to old age,
And
I rather like the jokin’ at the bottom of the cage.
I like the way its “S” stood out to show the week’s
beginning,
(In these new-fangled calendars the
days seem sort of mixed),
And the man upon the cover, though he
wa’n’t exactly winnin’,
With
lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed;
And
the letters and credentials that was writ to Mr. Ayer
I’ve
often on a rainy day found readin’ pretty fair.
I tried to buy one recently; there wa’n’t none in the
city!
They toted out great calendars, in every
shape and style.
I looked at ’em in cold disdain, and answered
’em in pity -
“I’d rather have
my almanac than all that costly pile.”
And though I take
to city life, I’m lonesome after all
For
that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day -
The
empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning
somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while
it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn
o’er the sun’s golden tract.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White
as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were
crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids
were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids
were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under
the coffin lid - out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness
and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s
baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I
know not her name, hut I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby
she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In
the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While
I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart
surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can
flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too,
at my door.
I tread the paths of earlier times
Where all my steps were set
to rhymes.
I gaze on scenes I used to see
When dreaming of a vague To be.
I walk in ways made bright of old
By hopes youth-limned in hues
of gold.
But lo! those hopes of future bliss
Seem dull beside the joy
that is.
My noonday skies are far more bright
Than those dreamed of in
morning’s light,
And life gives me more joys to hold
Than all it promised me
of old.
As we gaze up life’s slope, as we gaze
In
the morn, ere the dewdrops are dry,
What splendour hangs over the
ways,
What glory gleams there in the sky,
What
pleasures seem waiting us, high
On the peak of that beauteous slope,
What
rainbow-hued colours of hope,
As
we gaze!
As we climb up the hill, as we climb,
Our
hearts, our illusions, are rent:
For Fate, who is spouse of old
Time,
Is jealous of youth and content.
With
brows that are brooding and bent
She shadows our sunlight of gold,
And
the way grows lonely and cold
As
we climb.
As we toil on, through trouble and pain,
There
are hands that will shelter and feed;
But once let us dare to attain
-
They will bruise our bare hearts till they
bleed.
’Tis the worst of all crimes to
succeed,
Know this as ye feast on a crust,
Know this in the
darkness and dust,
Ye who climb.
As we stand on the heights of success,
Lo!
success seems as sad as defeat!
Through the lives we may succour
and bless
Alone may its litter turn sweet!
And
the world lying there at our feet,
With its cavilling praise and
its sneer,
We must pity, condone, but not hear,
Where
we stand.
As we live on those heights, we must live
With
the courage and pride of a god;
For the world, it has nothing to
give
But the scourge of the lash and the rod.
Our
thoughts must be noble and broad,
Our purpose must challenge men’s
gaze,
While we seek not their blame or their praise
As
we live.
So, thou hast the art, good dame, thou swearest,
To
keep Time’s perishing touch at bay
From the roseate splendour
of the cheek so tender,
And the silver threads
from the gold away.
And the tell-tale years that have hurried by
us
Shall tip-toe back, and, with kind good-will,
They
shall take the traces from off our faces,
If
we will trust to thy magic skill.
Thou speakest fairly; but if I listen
And
buy thy secret, and prove its truth,
Hast thou the potion and magic
lotion
To give me also the heart of youth?
With
the cheek of rose and the eye of beauty,
And
the lustrous looks of life’s lost prime,
Wilt thou bring
thronging each hope and longing
That made the
glory of that dead Time?
When the sap in the trees sets young buds bursting,
And
the song of the birds fills the air like spray,
Will rivers of
feeling come once more stealing
From the beautiful
hills of the far-away?
Wilt thou demolish the tower of reason,
And
fling for ever down into the dust
The caution time brought me,
the lessons life taught me,
And put in their
places my old sweet trust?
If Time’s foot-print from my brow is driven,
Canst
thou, too, take with thy subtle powers
The burden of thinking,
and let me go drinking
The careless pleasures
of youth’s bright hours?
If silver threads from my tresses
vanish,
If a glow once more in my pale cheek
gleams,
Wilt thou slay duty and give back the beauty
Of
days untroubled by aught but dreams?
When the soft fair arms of the siren Summer
Encircle
the earth in their languorous fold,
Will vast, deep oceans of sweet
emotions
Surge through my veins as they surged
of old?
Canst thou bring back from a day long-vanished
The
leaping pulse and the boundless aim?
I will pay thee double, for
all thy trouble,
If thou wilt restore all these,
good dame.
While forced to dwell apart from thy dear face,
Love,
robed like sorrow, led me by the hand
And taught
my doubting heart to understand
That which has puzzled all the
human race.
Full many a sage has questioned where in space
Those
counter worlds were? where the mystic strand
That
separates them? I have found each land,
And Hell is vast,
and Heaven a narrow space.
In the small compass of thy clasping arms,
In
reach and sight of thy dear lips and eyes,
There,
there for me the joy of Heaven lies.
Outside, lo! chaos, terrors’
wild alarms,
And all the desolation fierce and fell
Of void
and aching nothingness, makes Hell.
As yon great Sun in his supreme condition
Absorbs
small worlds and makes them all his own,
So does my love absorb
each vain ambition,
Each outside purpose which
my life has known.
Stars cannot shine so near that vast orb’d
splendour;
They are content to feed his flames
of fire:
And so my heart is satisfied to render
Its
strength, its all, to meet thy strong desire.
As in a forest when dead leaves are falling
From
all save some perennial green tree,
So one by one I find all pleasures
palling
That are not linked with or enjoyed by
thee.
And all the homage that the world may proffer,
I
take as perfumed oils or incense sweet,
And think of it as one
thing more to offer,
And sacrifice to Love, at
thy dear feet.
I love myself because thou art my lover,
My
name seems dear since uttered by thy voice;
Yet, argus-eyed, I
watch and would discover
Each blemish in the
object of thy choice.
I coldly sit in judgment on each error,
To
my soul’s gaze I hold each fault of me,
Until my pride is
lost in abject terror,
Lest I become inadequate
to thee.
Like some swift-rushing and sea-seeking river,
Which
gathers force the farther on it goes,
So does the current of my
love forever
Find added strength and beauty as
it flows.
The more I give, the more remains for giving,
The
more receive, the more remains to win.
Ah! only in eternities of
living
Will life be long enough to love thee
in.
There is no thing we cannot overcome
Say not
thy evil instinct is inherited,
Or that some trait inborn makes
thy whole life forlorn,
And calls down punishment
that is not merited.
Back of thy parents and grandparents lies
The
Great Eternal Will. That, too, is thine
Inheritance;
strong, beautiful, divine,
Sure lever of success for one who tries.
Pry up thy faults with this great lever, Will.
However
deeply bedded in propensity,
However firmly set, I tell thee firmer
yet
Is that vast power that comes from Truth’s
immensity.
Thou art a part of that strange world, I say.
Its
forces lie within thee, stronger far
Than all
thy mortal sins and frailties are,
Believe thyself divine, and
watch, and pray.
There is no noble height thou canst not climb.
All
triumphs may be thine in Time’s futurity,
If whatso’er
thy fault, thou dost not faint or halt,
But lean
upon the staff of God’s security.
Earth has no claim the soul can not contest.
Know
thyself part of that Eternal Source,
And naught
can stand before thy spirit’s force.
The soul’s divine
inheritance is best.
On the river of life, as I float along,
I
see with the spirit’s sight
That many a nauseous weed of
wrong
Has root in a seed of right.
For evil
is good that has gone astray,
And sorrow is only
blindness,
And the world is always under the sway
Of
a changeless law of kindness.
The commonest error a truth can make
Is shouting
its sweet voice hoarse,
And sin is only the soul’s mistake
In
misdirecting its force.
And love, the fairest of all fair things
That
ever to man descended,
Grows rank with nettles and poisonous things
Unless
it is watched and tended.
There could not be anything better than this
Old
world in the way it began;
And though some matters have gone amiss
From
the great original plan,
And however dark the skies may appear,
And
however souls may blunder,
I tell you it all will work out clear,
For
good lies over and under.
So vast the tide of love within me surging,
It
overflows like some stupendous sea,
The confines
of the Present and To-be;
And ’gainst the Past’s high
wall I feel it urging,
As it would cry, “Thou,
too, shalt yield to me!”
All other loves my supreme love embodies;
I
would be she on whose soft bosom nursed
Thy clinging
infant lips to quench their thirst;
She who trod close to hidden
worlds where God is,
That she might have, and
hold, and see thee first.
I would be she who stirred the vague, fond fancies
Of
thy still childish heart; who through bright days
Went
sporting with thee in the old-time plays,
And caught the sunlight
of thy boyish glances
In half-forgotten and long-buried
Mays.
Forth to the end, and back to the beginning,
My
love would send its inundating tide,
Wherein
all landmarks of thy past should hide.
If thy life’s lesson
must be learned through sinning,
My grieving
virtue would become thy guide.
For I would share the burden of thy errors,
So
when the sun of our brief life had set,
If thou
didst walk in darkness and regret,
E’en in that shadowy world
of nameless terrors,
My soul and thine should
be companions yet.
And I would cross with thee those troubled oceans
Of
dark remorse whose waters are despair:
All things
my jealous, reckless love would dare,
So that thou mightst not
recollect emotions
In which it did not have a
part and share.
There is no limit to my love’s full measure,
It’s
spirit-gold is shaped by earth’s alloy;
I
would be friend and mother, mate and toy,
I’d have thee look
to me for every pleasure,
And in me find all
memories of joy.
Yet though I love thee in such selfish fashion,
I
would wait on thee, sitting at thy feet,
And
serving thee, if thou didst deem it meet.
And couldst thou give
me one fond hour of passion,
I’d take that
hour and call my life complete.
With ever some wrong to be righting,
With
self ever seeking for place,
The world has been striving and fighting
Since
man was evolved out of space.
Bold history into dark regions
His
torchlight has fearlessly cast,
He shows us tribes warring in legions,
In
jungles of ages long passed.
Religion, forgetting her station,
Forgetting
her birthright from God,
Set nation to warring with nation
And
scattered dissension abroad.
Dear creeds have made men kill each
other,
Fair faith has bred hate and despair,
And
brother has battled with brother
Because of a
difference in prayer.
But earth has grown wiser and kinder,
For
man is evolving a soul:
From wars of an age that was blinder,
We
rise to a peace-girdled goal.
Where once men would murder in treason
And
slaughter each other in hordes,
They now meet together and reason,
With
thoughts for their weapons, not swords.
The brute in humanity dwindles
And lessens
as time speeds along,
And the spark of Divinity kindles
And
blazes up brightly and strong.
The seer can behold in the distance
The
race that shall people the world -
Strong men of a godlike existence
Unarmed,
and with war banners furled.
No longer the bloodthirsty savage
Man’s
vast spirit strength shall unfold;
And tales of red warfare and
ravage
Shall seem like ghost stories of old.
For
the booming of guns and the rattle
Of carnage
and conflict shall cease,
And the bugle-call, leading to battle,
Shall
change to a pæan of peace.
That melancholy phrase “It might have been,”
However
sad, doth in its heart enfold
A hidden germ of
promise! for I hold
Whatever might have been shall be.
Though
in
Some other realm and life, the soul must win
The
goal that erst was possible. But cold
And
cruel as the sound of frozen mould
Dropped on a coffin, are the
words “Has been.”
“She has been beautiful” - “he has been great,”
“Rome
has been powerful,” we sigh and say.
It
is the pitying crust we toss decay,
The dirge we breathe o’er
some degenerate state,
An epitaph for fame’s unburied dead.
God
pity those who live to hear it said!
Out from the harbour of youth’s bay
There
leads the path of pleasure;
With eager steps we walk that way
To
brim joy’s largest measure.
But when with morn’s departing
beam
Goes youth’s last precious minute,
We
sigh “’Twas but a fevered dream -
There’s
nothing in it.”
Then on our vision dawns afar
The goal of
glory, gleaming
Like some great radiant solar star,
And
sets us longing, dreaming.
Forgetting all things left behind,
We
strain each nerve to win it,
But when ’tis ours - alas! we
find
There’s nothing in it.
We turn our sad, reluctant gaze
Upon the path
of duty;
Its barren, uninviting ways
Are
void of bloom and beauty.
Yet in that road, though dark and cold,
It
seems as we begin it,
As we press on - lo! we behold
There’s
Heaven in it.
Like some reformer, who with mien austere,
Neglected
dress, and loud insistent tones,
More rasping
than the wrongs which she bemoans,
Walks through the land and wearies
all who hear,
While yet we know the need of such
reform;
So comes unlovely March, with wind and
storm,
To break the spell of winter, and set free
The
poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.
Severe
of face, gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed,
She is not fair nor beautiful
to see.
But merry April and sweet smiling May
Come
not till March has first prepared the way.
The birds laugh loud and long together
When
Fashion’s followers speed away
At the first cool breath of
autumn weather.
Why, this is the time, cry the
birds, to stay!
When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over
Both
look their passion through sun-kissed space,
As a blue-eyed maid
and her blue-eyed lover
Might each gaze into
the other’s face.
Oh! this is the time when careful spying
Discovers
the secrets Nature knows.
You find when the butterflies plan for
flying
(Before the thrush or the blackbird goes),
You
see some day by the water’s edges
A brilliant
border of red and black;
And then off over the hills and hedges
It
flutters away on the summer’s track.
The shy little sumacs, in lonely places,
Bowed
all summer with dust and heat,
Like clean-clad children with rain-washed
faces,
Are dressed in scarlet from head to feet.
And
never a flower had the boastful summer,
In all
the blossoms that decked her sod,
So royal hued as that later comer
The
purple chum of the goldenrod.
Some chill grey dawn you note with grieving
That
the King of Autumn is on his way.
You see, with a sorrowful, slow
believing,
How the wanton woods have gone astray.
They
wear the stain of bold caresses,
Of riotous revels
with old King Frost;
They dazzle all eyes with their gorgeous dresses,
Nor
care that their green young leaves are lost.
A wet wind blows from the East one morning,
The
wood’s gay garments looked draggled out.
You hear a sound,
and your heart takes warning -
The birds are
planning their winter route.
They wheel and settle and scold and
wrangle,
Their tempers are ruffled, their voices
loud;
Then whirr - and away in a feathered tangle,
To
fade in the south like a passing cloud.
Envoi
A songless wood stripped bare of glory -
A
sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its
last love-story:
Oh! let us away to the gay bright
town.
There never was success so nobly gained,
Or
victory so free from selfish dross,
But in the winning some one
had been pained
Or some one suffered loss.
There never was so nobly planned a fête,
Or
festal throng with hearts on pleasure bent,
But some neglected
one outside the gate
Wept tears of discontent.
There never was a bridal morning fair
With
hope’s blue skies and love’s unclouded sun
For two
fond hearts, that did not bring despair
To some
sad other one.
Yea, she and I have broken God’s command,
And
in His sight are branded with our shame.
And
yet I do not even know her name,
Nor ever in my life have touched
her hand
Or brushed her garments. But I chanced to stand
Beside
her in the throng! A sweet, swift flame
Shot
from her flesh to mine - and hers the blame
Of willing looks that
fed it; aye, that fanned
The glow within me to a hungry fire.
There
was an invitation in her eyes.
Had she met mine
with coldness or surprise,
I had not plunged on headlong in the
mire
Of amorous thought. The flame leaped high and higher;
Her
breath and mine pulsated into sighs,
And soft
glance melted into glance kiss-wise,
And in God’s sight both
yielded to desire.
PART I
She was a light and wanton maid:
Not one whom fickle Love betrayed,
For
indolence was her undoer.
Fair, frivolous, and very poor,
She
scorned the thought of toil, in youth,
And chose the path that
leads from truth.
More women fall from want of gold
Than love leads wrong, if
truth were told;
More women sin for gay attire
Than sin through
passion’s blinding fire.
Her god was gold: and gold she saw
Prove
mightier than the sternest law
With judge and jury, priest and
king;
So, made herself an offering
At Mammon’s shrine;
and lived for power,
And ease, and pleasures of the hour.
Who looks beneath life’s outer crust
Is satisfied that
God is just;
Who looks not under, but about,
Finds much to
make him sad with doubt.
For Virtue walks with feet worn bare,
While
Sin rides by with coach and pair:
Men praise the modest heart and
chaste,
And yet they let it go to waste,
And follow, fierce
to have and hold,
Some creature, wanton, selfish, bold.
She saw but this, life’s outer side,
No higher faith was
hers to guide;
She worshipped gold, and hated toil,
And hence
her youth with all its soil,
With all its sins too dark to name,
Of
secret crimes and public shame,
With all its trail of broken lives,
Of
ruined homes, neglected wives,
And weeping mothers. Proud
and gay
She went her devastating way
With untouched brow and
fadeless grace.
Not time, but feeling, marks the face.
Sin on the outer being
tells
Not till the startled soul rebels:
And she felt nothing
but content.
She was too light and indolent
To worry over
days to come.
This little earth held all life’s sum,
She
thought, and to be young and fair,
Well clothed, well fed, was
all her care.
With pitying eyes and lifted head
She gazed
on those who toiled for bread,
And laughed to scorn the talk she
heard
Of punishment for those who erred,
And virtue’s
certain recompense.
She seemed devoid of moral sense,
An ignorant
thing whose appetites
Bound her horizon of delights.
Men were her puppets to control;
Unconscious of a heart or soul
She
lived, and gloried in the ease
She purchased by her power to please
The
eye and senses. Life’s one woe
Which caused her pitying
tears to flow
Was poverty. Though hearts might break
And
homes be ruined for her sake,
She showed no mercy. But when
need
Of gold she saw, her heart would bleed.
The lack of clothing,
fire, and food
Was earth’s one pain, she understood.
The suffering poor oft blest her name,
Nor questioned whence
the ducats came,
She gave so freely. Once she found
A
fainting woman on the ground,
A wailing child clasped to her breast.
With
her own hands she bathed and dressed
The weary waifs! gave food
and gold
And clothed them warmly from the cold,
Nor guessed
that one she lured from home
Had caused that suffering pair to
roam
Unhoused, neglected. Then one day,
Unheralded across
her way,
The conqueror came. She knew not why,
But with
the first glance of his eye
A feeling, new and unexplained,
Woke
in her what she oft had feigned.
And when his arm stole near her
waist,
As startled maidens blush with chaste
Sweet fear at
love’s advances, so
She blushed from brow to breast of snow.
Strange,
new emotions, fraught with joy
And pain commingled, made her coy;
But
when he would have clasped her neck
With gems that might a queen
bedeck
And offered gold, her lips grew white
With sudden anger
at the sight
Of what had been her god for years.
She flung
them from her. Then such tears
As only spring from love’s
despair
Welled from her eyes. “So, lady fair,
My
gifts are scorned?” quoth he, and laughed.
“Like Cleopatra,
you have quaffed
Such lordly pearls in draughts of wine,
You
spurn poor simple gems like mine.
Well, well, fair queen, I’ll
bring to you
A richer gift next time. Adieu.”
His light words stung like lash of whip;
With gasping breath
and ashen lip
She strove to speak, but he was gone
She kneeled
and pressed her mouth upon
The latch his hand had touched, the
floor
His foot had trod, and o’er and o’er
She
sobbed his name, as children moan
A mother’s name when left
alone.
Out from the dim and roseate gloom
And subtle odours of her
room
Accusing memories rose. She felt
A loneliness that
seemed to belt
The universe in its embrace.
It was as if from
some high place
A giant hand had reached and hurled
To nothingness
her petty world,
And left her staring, awed, alone,
Up into
regions vast, unknown.
There is no other loneliness
That can
so sadden and oppress
As when beside the burned-out fire
Of
sated passion and desire
The wakening spirit, in a glance,
Beholds
its lost inheritance.
She rose and turned the dim lights higher,
Brought
forth rich gems and grand attire,
And robed herself in feverish
haste;
Before the mirror posed and paced,
With jewels on her
breast and wrists;
Then sudden clenched her little fists
And
beat her face until it bled,
And tore her garments shred from shred,
Gazed
in the mirror, spoke her name
And hissed a word that told her shame,
Then
on her knees fell sobbing there.
There are sweet messengers of prayer
Who down through space
on soft wings steal,
And offer aid to all who kneel.
Her lips,
unused to pious phrase,
Recalled some words of bygone days,
And
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,”
She
whispered timidly, and then,
“Lord, let me be a child again
And
grow up good.” The strange prayer said,
Like some o’er-weary
child, her head
She pillowed on her arm, and wept
Low, shuddering
sobs, until she slept
And dreamed; and in that dream she thought
She
sat within a vine-wreathed cot;
An infant slumbered on her breast,
She
crooned a lullaby, and pressed
Its waxen hand against her cheek,
While
one, too proud and fond to speak,
The happy father of the child,
Stood
near, and gazing on them, smiled.
She woke while still the lullaby
Was on her lips - then such
a cry,
As souls in fabled realms below
Might utter, voiced
her awful woe.
The mighty moral labour-pain
Of new-born conscience wracked
her brain
And tore her soul. She understood
The meaning
now of womanhood,
And chastity, and o’er her came
The
full, dark sense of all her shame.
As some poor drunken wretch,
at night,
Wakes up to know his piteous plight,
And sees, while
sinking in the mire,
Afar, his waiting hearth-light’s fire;
So
now she saw from depths of sin
The hearth-light of the might-have-been.
How
beautiful, how like a star
That lost light shone, but ah, how far!
She reached her longing arms toward space,
And lifted up her
tear-wet face.
“O God,” she wailed, “I have been
bad!
I see it all, and I am sad,
And long to be a good girl
now.
Lord, Lord, will some one show me how?
Why, men have
trod the burning track
Of sin for years, and then gone back!
And
cannot I for sin atone,
Or did Christ die for men alone?
I
want to lead an honest life,
I want to be his own true wife
And
hold upon my breast his child.”
Then suddenly her voice grew
wild,
“No, no,” she cried, “it could not be -
Those
infant eyes would torture me:
Though God condoned my sinful ways,
I
could not meet my child’s pure gaze.”
She hid her face upon her knees,
And swayed as reeds sway in
a breeze.
“O Christ,” she moaned, “could I forget,
There
might be something for me yet:
But though both God and man forgave,
And
I should win the love I crave,
Why, memory would drive me mad.”
When woman drifts from good to bad,
To make her final fall complete,
She
puts her soul beneath her feet.
Man’s dual selves seem separate;
He
leaves his soul outside sin’s gate,
And finds it waiting
when he tires
Of carnal pleasures and desires,
Depleted, sickened,
and depressed,
As souls must be with such a test,
Yet strong
enough to help him grope
Back into happiness and hope.
But
woman, far more complicate,
Can take no chances with her fate;
A
subtle creature, finely spun,
Her body and her soul are one.
And
now this erring woman wept
The soul she murdered while it slept.
She
felt too stunned with pain to think.
She seemed to stand upon a
brink;
Behind her loomed the sinful past,
Below her, rocks,
beyond her, vast
And awful darkness. Not one ray
Of
sun or star to show the way!
She drew a long and shuddering breath;
“There
is no other path but death
For me to tread,” she sighed,
“and so
I will prepare my house and go.”
As housewives move with willing feet
And skilful hands to make
things neat
And ready for some welcome one,
She toiled until
her tasks were done.
Then, seated at her desk, she wrote,
With
painful care, a tear-wet note.
The childish penmanship was rude,
Ill
spelled the words, the phrasing crude;
Yet thought and feeling
both were there,
And mighty love and great despair.
“Dear
heart,” it ran, “you did not know
How, from the first,
I loved you so,
That sin grew hateful in my sight;
And so
I leave it all to-night.
The kiss I gave, dear heart, to you
Was
love’s first kiss, as pure and true
As ever lips of maiden
gave.
I think ’twill warm my lonely grave,
And light
the pathway I must tread
Among the hapless, homeless dead.
“When God formed worlds, He failed to make
A path for
erring feet to take
Back into light and peace again,
Unless
they were the feet of men.
When woman errs, and then regrets,
Her
sun of hope for ever sets,
And life is hung with deepest gloom.
In
all the world there is no room
For such as she; and so I hold
That
death itself is not so cold
As life has seemed, since by love’s
light
I saw there was a wrong and right,
And that my birthright
had been sold,
By my own hands, for tarnished gold.
I hated
labour, hence I fell;
But now I love you, dear, so well,
No
greater boon my soul could crave
Than just to toil, a galley-slave,
Through
burdened years and years of life,
If at the last you called me
wife
For one supreme and honoured hour.
Alas! too late I learn
love’s power,
Too late I realise my loss,
And have no
strength to bear my cross
Of loneliness and dark disgrace.
There
cannot be another place
So desolate, so full of fear,
As earth
to me, without you, dear.
“You will not understand, I know,
How one like me can
love you so.
It was a strange, strange thing. Love came
So
like a swift, devouring flame
And burned my frail, fair-weather
boat
And left me on the waves afloat,
With nothing but a broken
spar.
The distant shores seem very far;
I cannot reach them,
so I sink.
God will forgive my sins, I think,
Because I die
for love, like One
The good Book tells about, His Son.
“For erring woman death can bring
No pain so keen as memory’s
sting.
Good-night, good-bye. God bless you, dear,
And
give you love, and joy, and cheer!
But sometimes, in the dark night,
say
A prayer for one who went astray,
And found no pathway
back, and died
For love of you - a suicide.”
When morn his glorious pinions spread,
They found the erring
woman, dead.
PART II
She woke as one wakes from a deep
And dreamless, yet exhausting,
sleep.
A strange confusion filled her mind,
And sorrows vague and undefined,
Like half-remembered faces pressed
To memory’s window,
in her breast,
Gazed at her with reproachful eyes.
She felt a sudden, dazed
surprise,
Commingled with a sense of dread,
“I did but sleep - I
am not dead,
“The potion and the purpose failed,
And I still live,”
she wildly wailed.
“Nay, thou art dead, rash suicide,”
A sad voice
spake: and at her side
She saw a weird and shadowy crowd
With anguished lips, and shoulders
bowed,
And orbs that seemed the wells of woe.
She shrieked and veiled
her eyes. “No, no!
“I am not dead! I ache with life.
An earthly passion’s
hopeless strife
“Still tortures me.” “Yet thou art dead,”
The
voice with sad insistence said.
“But love and sorrow and regret
All die with death.
I feel them yet.”
“God bade thee live, and only He
Can say when thou shalt
cease to be.”
“But I was sin-sick, sad, alone -
I thought by death I
could atone,
“And died that Christ might show me how.”
“Christ
bore His burden, why not thou?”
“Oh! lead me to His holy feet
And let my penance be complete.”
“What! thinkest thou to find that path -
Thou who hast
tempted Heaven’s wrath
“By thy rash deed? Nay, nay, not so,
’Tis
but perfected spirits go
“To that supreme and final goal.
A self-sought death delays
the soul.
“With yonder shuddering, woeful throng
Of suicides thy
ways belong.
“Close to the earth a shadowy band,
Unseen, but seeing
all, they stand
“Until their natural time to die,
As God intended, shall
draw nigh.
“On earth, repentant, sick of sin,
A ministering angel
thou hadst been
“Whose patient toil and deeds divine
Had rescued souls
as sad as thine,
“Each deed a firm ascending stair
To lead beyond thy great
despair.
“But now it is thy mournful fate
To linger here and meditate
“On thy dark past - to stand so near
The earthly plane
that thou canst hear
“Thy lover’s voice, while old desire
Shall burn
within thee like a fire,
“And grief shall root thee to the spot
To find how soon
thou art forgot.
“But since thou hast endured the woes
That only fragile
woman knows,
“And loved as only woman can,
Thou shalt not suffer all
that man
“Must suffer when he interferes
With God’s great
law. In death’s dim spheres
“That justice waits, which men refuse.
Thy sex shall in
some part excuse
“Thy desperate deed. When God shall send
A second
death to be thy friend,
“Thou need’st not fear a darker fate -
Go forth
with yonder throng, and wait.”
Fair Freedom’s ship, too long adrift -
Of
every wind the sport -
Now rigged and manned, her course well planned,
Sails
proudly out of port;
And fluttering gaily from the mast
This
motto is unfurled,
Let all men heed its truth who read:
“Republics
rule the World!”
The universe is high as God!
Good is the final
goal;
The world revolves and man evolves
A
purpose and a soul.
No church can bind, no crown forbid
Thought’s
mighty upward course -
Let kings give way before its sway,
For
God inspires its force.
The hero of a vanished age
Was one who bathed
in gore;
Who best could fight was noblest knight
In
savage days of yore;
Now warrior chiefs are out of date,
The
times have changed. To-day
We call men great who arbitrate
And
keep war’s hounds at bay.
The world no longer looks to priest
Or prince
to know its needs;
Earth’s human throng has grown too strong
To
rule with courts and creeds.
We want no kings but kings of toil
-
No crowns but crowns of deeds;
Not royal
birth but sterling worth
Must mark the man who
leads.
Proud monarchies are out of step
With modern
thought to-day,
For Brotherhood is understood,
And
thrones may pass away.
Men dare to think. Concerted thought
Contains
more power than swords:
The force that binds united minds
Defeats
mere savage hordes.
Man needs no arbitrary hand
To keep him in
control;
He feels the power grow hour by hour
Of
his expanding soul:
In God’s stupendous scheme of worlds
He
knows he has a place;
He is no slave to cringe, and crave
Some
worthless monarch’s grace.
As ocean billows undermine
The haughty shores
each hour,
Time’s sea has brought its waves of thought
To
crumble thrones of power;
And one by one shall kingdoms fall
Like
leaves before the blast,
As man with man combines to plan
Republics
formed to last.
Columbia baulked a tyrant king,
And built
upon a rock,
In Freedom’s name, a shrine whose fame
Outlived
the century’s shock.
Now France within our port has set
Her
symbol of re-birth;
Her lifted hand tells sea and land
Republics
light the earth.
One mighty church for all the world
Would
make men far more kind;
One government would bring content
To
many a restless mind.
Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail
The
wide sea’s breadth and length.
’Till worlds unite to
make the might
Of “One Republic’s”
strength.
The quiet graves of our country’s braves
Through
thirty Junes and Decembers
Have solemnly lain under sun and rain,
And
yet the Nation remembers.
The marching of feet and the flags on the street
Told
once again this morning,
In the voice of the drum how the day had
come
For those lowly beds’ adorning.
Then swiftly back on Time’s worn track
His
three decades seemed driven,
And with startled eyes I saw arise,
From
graves by fancy riven,
The Gray and Blue in a grand review.
Oh! vast
were the hosts they numbered,
As they wheeled and swayed in a dress
parade
O’er the graves where they long
had slumbered.
The colours were not, as when they fought,
Ranked
one against the other,
But a mingled hue of gray and blue,
As
brother marching with brother.
And a blue flower lay on each coat of gray,
Like
forget-me-nots on a boulder;
And the gray moss lace in its Southern
grace
Was knotted on each blue shoulder.
The vision fled; but I think our dead,
If
they could come back with the living,
Would clasp warm hands o’er
hostile lands,
Forgetting old wrongs and forgiving.
’Mong the blossoms of Spring that you gather and bring
To
graves that though lowly are royal,
Let the blue flower prevail,
though modest and pale,
Since it speaks of the
hue that was loyal.
But tie each bouquet with a ribbon of gray
And
lay it on memory’s altar,
For the dead who fought for the
cause they thought
Was right, and who did not
falter.
When from our mortal vision
Grown men and
women go
To sail strange fields Elysian
And
know what spirits know,
I think of them as tourists,
In
some sun-gilded clime,
’Mong happy sights and dear delights
We
all shall find, in time.
But when a child goes yonder
And leaves its
mother here,
Its little feet must wander,
It
seems to me, in fear.
What paths of Eden beauty,
What
scenes of peace and rest,
Can bring content to one who went
Forth
from a mother’s breast?
In palace gardens, lonely,
A little child
will roam
And weep for pleasures only
Found
in its humble home.
It is not won by splendour,
Nor
bought by costly toys;
To hide from harm on mother’s arm
Makes
all its sum of joys.
It must be when the baby
Goes journeying off
alone,
Some angel (Mary, may be)
Adopts
it for her own.
Yet when a child is taken
Whose
mother stays below,
With weeping eyes, through Paradise,
I
seem to see it go.
With troops of angels trying
To drive away
its fear,
I seem to hear it crying,
“I
want my mamma here.”
I do not court the fancy,
It
is not based on doubt,
It is a thought that comes unsought
When
baby souls sail out.
I list your prattle, baby boy,
And hear your
pattering feet
With feelings more of pain than joy
And
thoughts of bitter-sweet.
While touching your soft hands in play
Such
passionate longings rise
For my wee boy who strayed away
So
soon to Paradise.
You win me with your infant art;
But when
our play is o’er,
The empty cradle in my heart
Seems
lonelier than before.
Sweet baby boy, you do not guess
How oft mine
eyes are dim,
Or that my lingering caress
Is
sometimes meant for him.
The tears of fallen women turned to ice
By man’s cold
pity for repentant vice.
The crimson life-drops from a virgin heart
Pierced to the core
by Cupid’s fatal dart.
Lost rays of light that wandered off alone
And
down through space were hurled
From that great sapphire sun beyond
our own
Pale, puny little world.
A baby went to heaven while it slept,
And,
waking, missed its mother’s arms, and wept.
Those angel tear-drops,
falling earthward through
God’s azure skies,
into the turquoise grew.
The time has come when men with hearts and brains
Must rise
and take the misdirected reins
Of government; too long left in
the hands
Of aliens and of lackeys. He who stands
And
sees the mighty vehicle of State
Hauled through the mire to some
ignoble fate
And makes not such bold protest as he can,
Is
no American,
I heard a strain of music in the street -
A
wandering waif of sound. And then straightway
A
nameless desolation filled the day.
The great green earth that
had been fair and sweet,
Seemed but a tomb; the life I thought
replete
With joy, grew lonely for a vanished
May.
Forgotten sorrows resurrected lay
Like
bleaching skeletons about my feet.
Above me stretched the silent, suffering sky,
Dumb
with vast anguish for departed suns
That
brutal Time to nothingness has hurled.
The daylight was as sad
as smiles that lie
Upon the wistful, unkissed
mouths of nuns,
And I stood
prisoned in an awful world.
Why dost thou shrink from my approach, O Man?
Why dost thou
ever flee in fear, and cling
To my false rival, Life? I do
but bring
Thee rest and calm. Then wherefore dost thou ban
And
curse me? Since the forming of God’s plan
I
have not hurt or harmed a mortal thing,
I have
bestowed sweet balm for every sting,
And peace eternal for earth’s
stormy span.
The wild mad prayers for comfort sent in vain
To
knock at the indifferent heart of Life,
I,
Death, have answered. Knowest thou not ’tis he,
My
cruel rival, who sends all thy pain
And wears
the soul out in unending strife?
Why
dost thou hold to him, then, spurning me?
My life’s long radiant Summer halts at last,
And lo! beside
my path way I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has
heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till
the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and
a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid colouring of
bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor
strive to drag them into Autumn’s place,
Nor
swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had
their day,
I’ll pluck the soberer asters
with good grace
And call September
nothing but September.
Each new invention doubles our worries an’ our troubles,
These
scientific fellows are spoilin’ of our land;
With motor,
wire, an’ cable, now’-days we’re scarcely able
To
walk or ride in peace o’ mind, an’ ’tisn’t safe
to stand.
It fairly makes me crazy to see how tarnal lazy
The
risin’ generation grows - an’ science is to blame.
With
telephones for talkin’, an’ messengers for walkin’,
Our
young men sit an’ loaf an’ smoke, without a blush o’
shame.
An’ then they wer’n’t contented until some one
invented
A sort o’ jerky tape-line clock,
to help on wasteful ways.
An’ that infernal ticker spends
money fur ’em quicker
Than any neighbourhood
o’ men in good old bygone days.
The risin’ generation is bent so on creation,
Folks
haven’t time to talk or sing or cry or even laugh.
But if
you take the notion to want some such emotion,
They’ve
got it all on tap fur you, right in the phonograph.
But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature
Of
artificial weather, I think we’re nearly through.
For when
we once go strainin’ to keep it dry or rainin’
To
suit the general public, ’twill bust the world in two,
Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long
turned to dust;
Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out
of date;
Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished
with nothing to show.
“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan;
“I
live in pleasures that I have known.”
The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty
Was,
And gazed far off into misty space
With a wrapt expression upon
her face.
“Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,
Such glory,
such honour,” said Yet-to-be.
“No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been,
Of such successes
as I shall win.
“The past, the present - why, what are they?
I live for
the joy of a future day.”
Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress,
Spoke up with a laugh,
“I must confess
“I find to-day so pleasant,” she said,
“I
never look back, and seldom ahead.
“Whatever has been, is a finished sum;
Whatever will be
- why, let it come.
“To-day is mine. And so, you see,
I have the past
and the yet-to-be;
“For to-day is the future of yesterday,
And the past of
to-morrow. I live while I may,
“And I think the secret of pleasure is this.
And this
alone,” said practical Is.
God sent us here to make mistakes,
To strive,
to fail, to re-begin,
To taste the tempting fruit
of sin,
And find what bitter food it makes,
To miss the path, to go astray,
To wander
blindly in the night;
But, searching, praying
for the light,
Until at last we find the way.
And looking back along the past,
We know we
needed all the strain
Of fear and doubt and strife
and pain
To make us value peace, at last.
Who fails, finds later triumph sweet;
Who
stumbles once, walks then with care,
And knows
the place to cry “Beware”
To other unaccustomed feet.
Through strife the slumbering soul awakes,
We
learn on error’s troubled route
The truths
we could not prize without
The sorrow of our sad mistakes.
You say that your nature is double; that life
Seems
more and more intricate, complex, and dual,
Because in your bosom
there wages the strife
’Twixt an angel
of light and a beast that is cruel -
An angel who whispers your
spirit has wings,
And a beast who would chain you to temporal things.
I listen with interest to all you have told,
And
now let me give you my view of your trouble:
You are to be envied,
not pitied; I hold
That every strong nature
is always made double.
The beast has his purpose; he need not
be slain:
He should serve the good angel in harness and chain.
The body that never knows carnal desires,
The
heart that to passion is always a stranger,
Is merely a furnace
with unlighted fires;
It sends forth no warmth
while it threatens no danger.
But who wants to shiver in cold safety
there?
Touch flame to the fuel! then watch it with care.
Those wild, fierce emotions that trouble your soul
Are
sparks from the great source of passion and power;
Throne reason
above them, and give it control,
And turn into
blessing this dangerous dower.
By lightnings unguided destruction
is hurled,
But chained and directed they gladden the world.
Pain can go guised as joy, dross pass for gold,
Vulgarity
can masquerade as wit,
Or spite wear friendship’s garments;
but I hold
That passionate feeling has no counterfeit.
Chief
jewel from Jove’s crown ’twas sent men, lent
For inspiration
and for sacrament.
Jove never could have made the Universe
Had
he not glowed with passion’s sacred fire;
Though man oft
turns the blessing to a curse,
And burns himself
on his own funeral pyre,
Though scarred the soul be where its light
burns bright,
Yet where it is not, neither is there might.
Yea, it was set in Jove’s resplendent crown
When
he created worlds; that done, why, hence,
He cast the priceless,
awful jewel down
To be man’s punishment
and recompense.
And that is how he sees and hears our tears
Unmoved
and calm from the eternal spheres.
But sometimes, since he parted with all passion,
In
trifling mood, to pass the time away,
He has created men in that
same fashion,
And many women (jesting as gods
may),
Who have no souls to be inspired or fired,
Mere sport
of idle gods who have grown tired.
And these poor puppets, gazing in the dark
At
their own shadows, think the world no higher;
And when they see
the all-creative spark
In other souls, they straightway
cry out, “Fire!”
And shriek, and rave, till their dissent
is spent,
While listening gods laugh loud in merriment.
Be not content - contentment means inaction;
The
growing soul aches on its upward quest;
Satiety is twin to satisfaction;
All
great achievements spring from life’s unrest.
The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding,
Would
never bless the earth with leaf and flower
Were not an inborn restlessness
abiding
In seed and germ, to stir them with its
power.
Were man contented with his lot forever,
He
had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled,
And the vast wonder
of our shores had never
Dawned on the gaze of
an admiring world.
Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented.
There
is a healthful restlessness of soul
By which a mighty purpose is
augmented
In urging men to reach a higher goal.
So when the restless impulse rises, driving
Your
calm content before it, do not grieve;
It is the upward reaching
of the spirit
Of the God in you to achieve -
achieve.
For ever stars are winging
Their swift and
endless race;
For ever suns are swinging
Their
mighty globes through space.
Since by his law required
To
join God’s spheres inspired,
The earth has never tired,
But
whirled and whirled and whirled.
For ever streams are flowing,
For
ever seeds are growing,
Alway is Nature showing
That
Action rules the world.
And since by God requested
To be, the
glorious light
Has never paused or rested,
But
travelled day and night.
Yet pigmy man, unseeing
The purpose
of his being,
Demands escape and freeing
From
universal force.
But law is law for ever,
And like a mighty
lever
It thrusts him tow’rd endeavour,
And
speeds him on his course.
A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
Was
plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot’s
royal splendour,
And both in my lady’s
boudoir lay.
Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,
“I
wonder why you are called a rose?
Your leaves will fade in a single
morning;
No blood of mine in your pale cheek
glows.
“Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway,
You
have no depths of fragrant bloom;
And what could you learn in a
rustic byway
To fit you to lie in my lady’s
room?
“If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,
What
have you to offer for such a place,
Beside my fragrant and splendid
blossom,
Ripe with colour and rich with grace?”
Said the sweet wild-rose, “Despite your dower
Of
finer breeding and deeper hue,
Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred
flower,
It is I who should lie on her breast,
not you.
“For small account is your hot-house glory
Beside
the knowledge that came to me
When I heard by the wayside love’s
old story
And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.”
To yearn for what we have not had, to sit
With
hungry eyes glued on the Future’s gate,
Why, that is heaven
compared to having it
With all the power gone
to appreciate.
Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait,
And
die at last with unappeased desire,
Than live to be the jest of
such a fate,
For that is my conception of hell-fire.
In that great journey of the stars through space
About
the mighty, all-directing Sun,
The pallid, faithful Moon has been
the one
Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,
Pale
with the swift, keen purpose of that race
Which
at Time’s natal hour was first begun,
Shines
ever on her lover as they run
And lights his orbit with her silvery
smile.
Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
Down
from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils
the Sun’s bold eyes,
Then in the gloaming
finds her lover’s lips.
While far and near the men our world
call wise
See only that the Sun is in eclipse.
Let the wild red-rose bloom. Though not to thee
So
delicately perfect as the white
And unwed lily
drooping in the light,
Though she has known the kisses of the bee
And
tells her amorous tale to passers-by
In perfumed whispers and with
untaught grace,
Still let the red-rose bloom in her own place;
She
could not be the lily should she try.
Why to the wondrous nightingale cry hush
Or
bid her cease her wild heart-breaking lay,
And
tune her voice to imitate the way
The whip-poor-will makes music,
or the thrush?
All airs of sorrow to one theme
belong,
And passion is not copyrighted yet.
Each heart writes
its own music. Why not let
The nightingale
unchided sing her song?
Not only sun-kissed heights are fair. Below
The cold,
dark billows of the frowning deep
Do lovely blossoms of the ocean
sleep,
Rocked gently by the waters to and fro.
The coral beds
with magic colours glow,
And priceless pearl-encrusted
molluscs heap
The glittering rocks where shining
atoms leap
Like living broken rainbows.
Even so
We find the sea
of sorrow. Black as night
The sullen surface
meets our frightened gaze,
As
down we sink to darkness and despair.
But at the depths - such
beauty! such delight!
Such flowers as never grew
in pleasure’s ways!
Ah!
not alone are sun-kissed summits fair.
Like an opera-house is the world, I ween,
Where the passionate
lover of music is seen
In the balcony near the
roof:
While the very best seat in the first stage-box
Is filled
by the person who laughs and talks
Through the
harmony’s warp and woof.
When Venus, mother and maker of blisses,
Rose
out of the billows, large-limbed, and fair,
She stood on the sands
and blew sweet kisses
To the salt sea-wind as
she dried her hair.
And the salt sea-wind was the first to caress her
To
praise her beauty and call her sweet,
The first of the whole wide
world to possess her,
She, that creature of light
and heat.
Though the sea is old with its sorrows and angers,
And
the world has forgotten why love was born,
Yet the salt sea-wind
is full of the languors
That Venus taught on
her natal morn.
And now whoever dwells there by the ocean,
And
feels the wind on his hair and face,
Is stirred by a subtle and
keen emotion,
The lingering spell of that first
embrace.
New Year, I look straight in your eyes -
Our
ways and our interests blend;
You may be a foe in disguise,
But
I shall believe you a friend.
We get what we give in our measure,
We
cannot give pain and get pleasure;
I give you good will and good
cheer,
And you must return it, New Year.
We get what we give in this life,
Though often
the giver indeed
Waits long upon doubting and strife
Ere
proving the truth of my creed.
But somewhere, some way, and for
ever
Reward is the meed of endeavour;
And if I am really worth
while,
New Year, you will give me your smile.
You hide in your mystical hand
No “luck”
that I cannot control,
If I trust my own courage and stand
On
the Infinite strength of my soul.
Man holds in his brain and his
spirit
A power that is God-like, or near it,
And he who has
measured his force
Can govern events and their course.
You come with a crown on your brow,
New Year,
without blemish or spot;
Yet you, and not I, sir, must bow,
For
time is the servant of thought
Whatever you bring me of trouble
Shall
turn into good, and then double,
If my spirit looks up without
fear
To the Source that you came from, New Year.
The age is too diffusive. Time and Force
Are
frittered out and bring no satisfaction.
The
way seems lost to straight determined action.
Like
shooting stars that zig-zag from their course
We
wander from our orbit’s pathway; spoil
The rôle we’re
fitted for, to fail in twenty.
Bring empty measures, that were
shaped for plenty,
At last as guerdon for a life
of toil.
There’s lack of greatness in this generation
Because
no more man centres on one thought.
We know this
truth, and yet we heed it not:
The secret of success is Concentration.
Thoughts do not need the wings of words
To
fly to any goal.
Like subtle lightnings, not like birds,
They
speed from soul to soul.
Hide in your heart a bitter thought -
Still
it has power to blight;
Think Love - although you speak it not
It
gives the world more light.
Luck is the tuning of our inmost thought
To
chord with God’s great plan.
That
done, ah! know,
Thy silent wishes to results shall grow,
And
day by day shall miracles be wrought.
Once let thy being selflessly
be brought
To chime with universal good, and
lo!
What music from the spheres shall through
thee flow!
What benefits shall come to thee unsought!
Shut out the noise of traffic! Rise above
The
body’s clamour! With the soul’s fine ear
Attune
thyself to harmonies divine -
All, all are written in the key of
Love.
Keep to the score, and thou hast naught
to fear;
Achievements yet undreamed
of shall be thine.
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