Part 1

POEMS OF LIFE BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

EDINBURGH. W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

CONTENTS

LIFE A SONG OF LIFE CONVERSION LIFE AND I LIMITLESS TWO SUNSETS UNREST ARTIST'S LIFE NOTHING BUT STONES SECRETS USELESSNESS WILL WINTER RAIN INEVITABLE THE OCEAN OF SONG GETHSEMANE DUST-SEALED ADVICE OVER THE BANISTERS MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER THE FAREWELL THE PAST "IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN" THE SONNET NOTHING NEW HELENA NOTHING REMAINS FINIS APPLAUSE LIFE THE STORY LET THEM GO THE ENGINE IN THE LONG RUN A SONG THE TWO GLASSES WHAT WE NEED IS IT DONE? BURDENED TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? A MARCH SNOW COMRADES IN THE CROWD INTO SPACE SNOWED UNDER NOBLESSE OBLIGE THE YEAR THROUGH DIM EYES TRUE CULTURE WHAT GAIN? THE CHRISTIAN'S NEW YEAR PRAYER AND THEY ARE DUMB

POEMS OF LIFE

LIFE

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

As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower For lovers' secrets, or for children's sports, Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds, And lets the eye behold it, limitless, And full of winding mysteries of ways: So now with life that reaches out before, And borders on the unexplained Beyond.

I see the stars above me, world on world: I hear the awful language of all Space; I feel the distant surging of great seas, That hide the secrets of the Universe In their eternal bosoms; and I know That I am but an atom of the Whole.

A SONG OF LIFE

In the rapture of life and of living, I lift up my heart and rejoice, And I thank the great Giver for giving The soul of my gladness a voice. In the glow of the glorious weather, In the sweet-scented, sensuous air, My burdens seem light as a feather-- They are nothing to bear.

In the strength and the glory of power, In the pride and the pleasure of wealth (For who dares dispute me my dower Of talents and youth-time and health?), I can laugh at the world and its sages-- I am greater than seers who are sad, For he is most wise in all ages Who knows how to be glad.

I lift up my eyes to Apollo, The god of the beautiful days, And my spirit soars off like a swallow, And is lost in the light of its rays. Are you troubled and sad? I beseech you Come out of the shadows of strife-- Come out in the sun while I teach you The secret of life.

Come out of the world--come above it-- Up over its crosses and graves, Though the green earth is fair and I love it, We must love it as masters, not slaves. Come up where the dust never rises-- But only the perfume of flowers-- And your life shall be glad with surprises Of beautiful hours. Come up where the rare golden wine is Apollo distills in my sight, And your life shall be happy as mine is, And as full of delight.

CONVERSION

When this world's pleasures for my soul sufficed, Ere my heart's plummet sounded depths of pain, I called on Reason to control my brain, And scoffed at that old story of the Christ.

But when o'er burning wastes my feet had trod, And all my life was desolate with loss, With bleeding hands I clung about the cross, And cried aloud, "Man needs a suffering God!"

LIFE AND I

Life and I are lovers, straying Arm in arm along: Often like two children Maying, Full of mirth and song,

Life plucks all the blooming hours Growing by the way; Binds them on my brow like flowers, Calls me Queen of May.

Then again, in rainy weather, We sit vis-a-vis, Planning work we'll do together In the years to be.

Sometimes Life denies me blisses, And I frown or pout; But we make it up with kisses Ere the day is out.

Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him, Try his trust and faith, Saying I shall one day leave him For his rival, Death.

Then he always grows more zealous, Tender, and more true; Loves the more for being jealous, As all lovers do.

Though I swear by stars above him, And by worlds beyond, That I love him--love him--love him; Though my heart is fond;

Though he gives me, doth my lover, Kisses with each breath-- I shall one day throw him over, And plight troth with Death.

LIMITLESS

There is nothing, I hold, in the way of work That a human being may not achieve If he does not falter, or shrink or shirk, And more than all, if he will _believe_.

Believe in himself and the power behind That stands like an aid on a dual ground, With hope for the spirit and oil for the wound, Ready to strengthen the arm or mind.

When the motive is right and the will is strong There are no limits to human power; For that great force back of us moves along And takes us with it, in trial's hour.

And whatever the height you yearn to climb, Tho' it never was trod by the foot of man, And no matter how steep--I say you _can_, If you will be patient-and use your time.

TWO SUNSETS

In the fair morning of his life, When his pure heart lay in his breast, Panting, with all that wild unrest To plunge into the great world's strife

That fills young hearts with mad desire, He saw a sunset. Red and gold The burning billows surged and rolled, And upward tossed their caps of fire.

He looked. And as he looked, the sight Sent from his soul through breast and brain Such intense joy, it hurt like pain. His heart seemed bursting with delight.

So near the Unknown seemed, so close He might have grasped it with his hands He felt his inmost soul expand, As sunlight will expand a rose.

One day he heard a singing strain-- A human voice, in bird-like trills. He paused, and little rapture-rills Went trickling downward through each vein.

And in his heart the whole day long, As in a temple veiled and dim, He kept and bore about with him The beauty of that singer's song.

And then? But why relate what then? His smouldering heart flamed into fire-- He had his one supreme desire, And plunged into the world of men.

For years queen Folly held her sway. With pleasures of the grosser kind She fed his flesh and drugged his mind, Till, shamed, he sated, turned away.

He sought his boyhood's home. That hour Triumphant should have been, in sooth, Since he went forth, an unknown youth, And came back crowned with wealth and power.

The clouds made day a gorgeous bed; He saw the splendour of the sky With unmoved heart and stolid eye; He only knew the West was red.

Then suddenly a fresh young voice Rose, bird-like, from some hidden place, He did not even turn his face-- It struck him simply as a noise.

He trod the old paths up and down. Their rich-hued leaves by Fall winds whirled-- How dull they were--how dull the world-- Dull even in the pulsing town.

O! worst of punishments, that brings A blunting of all finer sense, A loss of feelings keen, intense, And dulls us to the higher things.

O! penalty most dire, most sure, Swift following after gross delights, That we no more see beauteous sights, Or hear as hear the good and pure.

O! shape more hideous and more dread Than Vengeance takes in creed-taught minds, This certain doom that blunts and blinds, And strikes the holiest feelings dead.

UNREST

In the youth of the year, when the birds were building, When the green was showing on tree and hedge, And the tenderest light of all lights was gilding The world from zenith to outermost edge, My soul grew sad and longingly lonely! I sighed for the season of sun and rose, And I said, "In the Summer and that time only Lies sweet contentment and blest repose."

With bee and bird for her maids of honour Came Princess Summer in robes of green. And the King of day smiled down upon her And wooed her, and won her, and made her queen. Fruit of their union and true love's pledges, Beautiful roses bloomed day by day, And rambled in gardens and hid in hedges Like royal children in sportive play.

My restless soul for a little season Revelled in rapture of glow and bloom, And then, like a subject who harbours treason, Grew full of rebellion and grey with gloom. And I said, "I am sick of the summer's blisses, Of warmth and beauty, and nothing more. The full fruition my sad soul misses That beauteous Fall-time holds in store!"

But now when the colours are almost blinding, Burning and blending on bush and tree, And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding, And the year is ripe as a year can be, My soul complains in the same old fashion; Crying aloud in my troubled breast Is the same old longing, the same old passion. O where is the treasure which men call rest?

"ARTIST'S LIFE"

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote, Mad with melody, rhythm--rife From the very first to the final note. Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger-ends, Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest, And all that is sweetest and saddest blends Together within my breast.

It brings back that night in the dim arcade, In love's sweet morning and life's best prime, When the great brass orchestra played and played, And set our thoughts to rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of mad delights, Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, And those languid moon-washed Summer nights When we heard the band in the street.

It brings back rapture and glee and glow, It brings back passion and pain and strife, And so of all the waltzes I know, Give me the "Artist's Life."

For it is so full of the dear old time-- So full of the dear old friends I knew. And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme, I am always finding--YOU.

NOTHING BUT STONES

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

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

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

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

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

SECRETS

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone; Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death, We one by one, with our expiring breath, Do pale with wonder seize and make our own; The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown, Despite her careful hiding; and the air Yields its mysterious marvels in despair To swell the mighty store-house of things known. In vain the sea expostulates and raves; It cannot cover from the keen world's sight The curious wonders of its coral caves. And so, despite thy caution or thy tears, The prying fingers of detective years Shall drag THY secret out into the light.

USELESSNESS

Let mine not be that saddest fate of all To live beyond my greater self; to see My faculties decaying, as the tree Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall. Let me hear rather the imperious call, Which all men dread, in my glad morning time, And follow death ere I have reached my prime, Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall. The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day Is kinder than the calm that lets it last, Unhappy witness of its own decay. May no man ever look on me and say, "She lives, but all her usefulness is past."

WILL

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, Can circumvent or hinder or control The firm resolve of a determined soul. Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; All things give way before it, soon or late. What obstacle can stay the mighty force Of the sea-seeking river in its course, Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, Whose slightest action or inaction serve. The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still, And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

WINTER RAIN

Falling upon the frozen world last night I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain-- Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain; The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might, Far better had the fixedness of white And uncomplaining snows--which make no sign, But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine-- Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, I learned the uselessness of uttered woe. Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow, I do not waste the gall now of my tears, But feed my pride upon its bitter, while I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.

INEVITABLE

To-day I was so weary and I lay In that delicious state of semi-waking, When baby, sitting with his nurse at play, Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest, And signed to nurse to bear him from the room. Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast, And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me, With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears, Of days inevitable, that are to be, If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;

Days when he will not call for "mamma," when The world, with many a pleasure and bright joy, Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other homes and loves shall give delight, When younger smiles and voices will seem best. And so I held him to my heart to-night, Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.

THE OCEAN OF SONG

In a land beyond sight or conceiving, In a land where no blight is, no wrong, No darkness, no graves, and no grieving, There lies the great ocean of song. And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden By any save gods, and their kind, Are not blue, are not green, but are golden, Like moonlight and sunlight combined.

It was whispered to me that their waters Were made from the gathered-up tears That were wept by the sons and the daughters Of long-vanished eras and spheres. Like white sands of heaven the spray is That falls all the happy day long, And whoever it touches straightway is Made glad with the spirit of song.

Up, up to the clouds where their hoary Crowned heads melt away in the skies, The beautiful mountains of glory Each side of the song-ocean rise. Here day is one splendour of sky-light-- Of God's light with beauty replete. Here night is not night, but is twilight, Pervading, enfolding, and sweet.

Bright birds from all climes and all regions, That sing the whole glad summer long, Are dumb, till they flock here in legions And lave in the ocean of song. It is here that the four winds of heaven, The winds that do sing and rejoice, It is here they first came and were given The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down along beautiful beeches, By night and by glorious day, The throng of the gifted ones reaches, Their foreheads made white with the spray, And a few of the sons and the daughters Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight, Go down in the wonderful waters, And bathe in those billows of light.

And their souls evermore are like fountains, And liquid and lucent and strong, High over the tops of the mountains Gush up the sweet billows of song. No drouth-time of waters can dry them. Whoever has bathed in that sea, All dangers, all deaths, they defy them, And are gladder than gods are, with glee.

GETHSEMANE

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.

DUST-SEALED

I know not wherefore, but mine eyes See bloom, where other eyes see blight. They find a rainbow, a sunrise, Where others but discern deep night.

Men call me an enthusiast, And say I look through gilded haze: Because where'er my gaze is cast, I see something that calls for praise.

I say, "Behold those lovely eyes-- That tinted cheek of flower-like grace." They answer in amused surprise: "We thought it a common face."

I say, "Was ever seen more fair? I seem to walk in Eden's bowers." They answer, with a pitying air, "The weeds are choking out the flowers."

I know not wherefore, but God lent A deeper vision to my sight. On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent I catch the beauty Infinite;

That underlying, hidden half That all things hold of Deity. So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh-- Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.

"ADVICE"

I must do as you do? Your way I own Is a very good way. And still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, That the prudent choose each time; And you think me reckless and rash to-day, Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine. We are not like peas in a pod, Compelled to lie in a certain line, Or else be scattered abroad.

'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, If we all went just one way; Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, Though they lead apart to-day.

You like the shade, and I like the sun; You like an even pace, I like to mix with the crowd and run, And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm and strife, You like a peaceful time; I like the passion and surge of life, You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend, For so it was written down; We must follow our given paths to the end, But I trust we shall meet--in town.

OVER THE BANISTERS

Over the banisters bends a face, Daringly sweet and beguiling. Somebody stands in careless grace And watching the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below, Nobody sees her standing, Saying good-night again, soft and low, Halfway up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown, Tender and full of meaning, That smile on the fairest face in town, Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, I wonder why she lingers; Now, when the good-nights all are said, Why, somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down, Suddenly growing bolder, Till the loose hair drops its masses brown Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair, Brush his cheeks like a feather, And bright brown tresses and dusky hair Meet and mingle together.

There's a question asked, there's a swift caress, She has flown like a bird from the hallway, But over the banisters drops a "Yes," That shall brighten the world for him alway.

MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER

Though with gods the world is cumbered, Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered, Never god was known to be Who had not his devotee. So I dedicate to mine, Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

'Tis not Ares,--mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars. 'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, 'Tis not Venus, she whose duty 'Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome god of laughter.

Quirinus would guard my health, Plutus would insure me wealth; Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid. All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, god of mirth.

Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light, Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the god of glee.

Wisdom wearies, Love has wings-- Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a thorny crown-- So all gifts the gods throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, god of laughter. He alone gives constant joy. Hail to Momus, happy boy.

THE FAREWELL

'Tis not the untried soldier new to danger Who fears to enter into active strife. Amidst the roll of drums, the cannon's rattle, He craves adventure, and thinks not of life.