Part 1

POEMS of REFLECTION

BY Ella Wheeler Wilcox Author of POEMS OF PASSION POEMS OF PLEASURE POEMS OF LOVE OUT OF THE DEPTHS

CHICAGO M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 427-429 Dearborn Street

Copyright 1905. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

CONTENTS

Bohemia Penalty Life Lines from "Maurine" When Only Dreams In the Night Contentment A New Year's Greeting to the City of the Lakes Mother's Loss The Women Lean Down and Lift Me Higher A Tribute to Vinnie Ream The Little Bird "Vampires" Dying The King and the Siren Sunshine and Shadow Whatever Is--Is Best Transplanted Worldly Wisdom New Orleans, 1885 The Room Beneath the Rafters My Comrade At An Old Drawer So Long in Coming Lay It Away Perished The Belle's Soliloquy My Vision Dream-Time Sing to Me Summer Song A Twilight Thought The Belle of the Season Joy Bird of Hope A Golden Day Fading All the World Lines A Fragment The Change Old The Musicians The Doomed City's Prayer Daft Hung When I Am Dead In Memory of Miss Jenny Blanchard In Memory of J. B. Bird of Hope Ghosts Out of the Depths Mistakes Presumption Twilight Thoughts Listen! Song of the Spirit The Pilgrim Fathers Lines Written upon the Death of James Buell Searching Fading A Dream Idler's Song For Him Who Shall Best Understand It Dying Thanksgiving Our Angel Until the Night A Tribute In Memory of Charlie Spaulding

POEMS

BOHEMIA.

Bohemia, o'er thy unatlassed borders How many cross, with half-reluctant feet, And unformed fears of dangers and disorders, To find delights, more wholesome and more sweet Than ever yet were known to the "elite."

Herein can dwell no pretense and no seeming; No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere, Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming. The shores of the ideal world, from here, Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.

We have no use for formal codes of fashion; No "Etiquette of Courts" we emulate; We know it needs sincerity and passion To carry out the plans of God, or fate; We do not strive to seem inanimate.

We call no time lost that we give to pleasure; Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great sea; We cast out no vain plummet-line to measure Imagined depths of that unknown To Be, But grasp the Now, and fill it full of glee.

All creeds have room here, and we all together Devoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine; But he who dwells once in thy golden weather, Bohemia--sweet, lovely land of mine-- Can find no joy outside thy border-line.

PENALTY.

Because of the fullness of what I had All that I have seems void and vain. If I had not been happy I were not sad; Though my salt is savorless, why complain?

From the ripe perfection of what was mine, All that is mine seems worse than naught; Yet I know as I sit in the dark and pine, No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.

From the throb and thrill of a day that was, The day that now is seems dull with gloom; Yet I bear its dullness and darkness because 'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.

From the royal feast which of old was spread I am starved on the diet which now is mine; Yet I could not turn hungry from water and bread, If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.

LIFE.

An infant wailing in nameless fear; A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room, Or the hum of an insect flying near. Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom.

A little child on the sun-checked floor, A broken toy, and a tear-stained face, A young life clouded, a young heart sore; And the great clock, time, ticks on apace.

A maiden weeping in bitter pain. Two white hands clasped on an aching brow. A blighted faith and a fond hope slain, A shattered trust and a broken vow.

A matron holding a baby's shoe. The hot tears gather, and fall at will On the knotted ribbon of white and blue, For the foot that wore it is cold and still.

An aged woman upon her bed, Worn, and wearied, and poor and old, Longing to rest with the happy dead. And thus the story of life is told.

Where is the season of careless glee? Where is the moment that holds no pain? Life has its crosses from infancy Down to the grave; and its hopes are vain.

LINES FROM "MAURINE."

I'd rather have my verses win A place in common peoples' hearts, Who, toiling through the strife and din Of life's great thoroughfares, and marts,

May read some line my hand has penned; Some simple verse, not fine, or grand, But what their hearts can understand And hold me henceforth as a friend,--

I'd rather win such quiet fame Than by some fine thought, polished so But those of learned minds would know, Just what the meaning of my song,-- To have the critics sound my name In high-flown praises, loud and long.

I sing not for the critic's ear, But for the masses. If they hear, Despite the turmoil, noise and strife Some least low note that gladdens life, I shall be wholly satisfied, Though critics to the end deride.

WHEN.

I dwell in the western inland, Afar from the sounding sea, But I seem to hear it sobbing And calling aloud to me, And my heart cries out for the ocean As a child for its mother's breast, And I long to lie on its waters And be lulled in its arms to rest.

I can close my eyes and fancy That I hear its mighty roar, And I see its blue waves splashing And plunging against the shore; And the white foam caps the billow, And the sea-gulls wheel and cry, And the cool wild wind is blowing And the ships go sailing by.

Oh, wonderful, mighty ocean! When shall I ever stand, Where my heart has gone already, There on thy gleaming strand I

When shall I ever wander Away from this inland west, And stand by thy side, dear ocean, And rock on thy heaving breast?

ONLY DREAMS.

A maiden sat in the sunset glow Of the shadowy, beautiful Long Ago, That we see through a mist of tears. She sat and dreamed, with lips apart, With thoughtful eyes and a beating heart, Of the mystical future years; And brighter far than the sunset skies Was the vision seen by the maiden's eyes.

There were castles built of the summer air, And beautiful voices were singing there, In a soft and floating strain. There were skies of azure and fields or green, With never a cloud to come between, And never a thought of pain; There was music, sweet as the silvery notes That flow from a score of thrushes' throats.

There were hands to clasp with a loving hold; There were lips to kiss, and eyes that told More than the lips could say. And all of the faces she loved were there, With their snowy brows untouched by care, And locks that were never gray. And Love was the melody each heart beat, And the beautiful vision was all complete.

But the castles built of the summer wind I have vainly sought. I only find Shadows, all grim and cold;-- For I was the maiden who thought to see Into the future years,-Ah, me! And I am gray and old. My dream of earth was as fair and bright As my hope of heaven is to-night.

Dreams are but dreams at the very best, And the friends I loved lay down to rest With their faces hid away. They had furrowed brows and snowy hair, And they willingly laid their burdens where Mine shall be laid one day. A shadow came over my vision scene As the clouds of sorrow came in between.

The hands that I thought to clasp are crossed, The lips and the beautiful eyes are lost, And I seek them all in vain. The gushes of melody, sweet and clear, And the floating voices, I do not hear, But only a sob of pain; And the beating hearts have paused to rest, Ah! dreams are but dreams at the very best.

"IN THE NIGHT."

In the silent midnight watches, When the earth was wrapped in gloom, And the grim and awful darkness Crept unbidden to my room, On the solemn, deathly stillness Of the night there broke a sound Like ten million wailing voices, Crying loudly from the ground.

From ten million graves, came voices East and west and north and south. Leagues apart, and yet together Spake they, e'en as with one mouth. "Men and women, men and women," Cried these voices from the ground, And the very earth was shaken With the strange and awful sound.

"Ye who weep in selfish sorrow, Ye who laugh in selfish mirth, Hark! and listen for a moment To the voices from the earth. Wake, and listen, ye who slumber. Pause, and listen, ye who feast, To the warning of the voices From the graves in west and east.

"We, the victims of a demon, We, who one, and each, and all, Can cry out before high Heaven, We are slain by Alcohol. We would warn you, youths and maidens, From the path that we have trod. From the path that leads to ruin, And away from Peace and God.

"We, the millions who have fallen, Warn you from the ruddy glow Of the wine in silver goblets, For destruction lies below, Wine and gin, and rum and brandy, Whiskey, cider, ale and beer: These have slain us, and destroyed us-- These the foes that brought us here.

"You are safe, you say? ah, Heaven! So we said, and drank, and died, We are safe, we proudly boasted, Yet we sunk down in the tide. There is never any safety From the snares of Alcohol, For the youth who looks on liquor, Tastes, or handles it at all.

"We beseech you, men and women, Fathers, Mothers, Husbands, Wives, To arise and slay the demon That is threatening dear one's lives. Do not preach of moderation To your children, for alas! There is not a foe more subtle Than the fateful Social Glass.

"Thoughtless mother, wife or sister, Dash that poison cup away! He, the husband, son, or brother, Who so gaily sips to-day, May to-morrow stagger homeward, Jeered and scorned by sober men. Would you smile upon him proudly-- Would you say 'I did it'-then?

"Ah! a vast and mighty number Of the drunkards in all lands Take the first step to destruction Led by white and fragile hands. Every smile you give the wine-cup, Every glance, oh lady fair, Like a spade digs down, and hollows Out a drunkard's grave, somewhere.

"Men in office, men in power: Will you let this demon wild Stalk unfettered through the nation, Slaying woman, man, and child? Oh, arouse, ye listless mortals! There is work for every one! We have warned you of your danger; We have spoken-we have done!"

Round about me fell the silence Of the solemn night, once more, And I heard the quiet ticking Of the clock outside my door. It was not a dreamer's fancy-- Not a romance of my brain But the warning of the victims That Old Alcohol had slain.

CONTENTMENT.

If any line that I ever penned, Or any word I have spoken, Has comforted heart, of foe or friend-- In any way, why my life, I'll say Has reaped the reward of labor. If aught I have said, or written, has made Gladder the heart o' my neighbor.

If any deed that I ever did Lightened a sad heart's sorrow, If I have lifted a drooping lid Up to the bright to-morrow, Though the world knows not, nor gives me a thought, Nor ever can know, nor praise me. Yet still I shall say, to my heart alway, That my life, and labor repays me.

If in any way I have helped a soul, Or given a spirit pleasure, Then my cup of joy, I shall think is full With an overflowing measure. Though never an eye, but the one on high Looks on my kindly action, Yet, oh my heart, we shall think of our part in the drama, with satisfaction.

A NEW YEAR'S GREETING TO THE CITY OF THE LAKES.

I said "I will write a greeting, To the City of the Lakes, Write, while the city sleepeth, And sing it when it wakes.

"To this fair, and blessed city, That the glad New Year doth bring Its best, and its sweetest treasure, Its choicest offering.

"It brings to our joyful Nation, The boon of Peace again, The fields are white, not scarlet, With the death-blood of the slain.

"And not with the sounds of sobbing, Do we usher in the year, Not with hand clasps, and partings, But with goodly mirth and cheer.

"And brother shall meet with brother, In peace, from North to South, And 'I wish you a happy New Year,' Shall echo from mouth to mouth.

"And there shall be feast, and revel, In many a home, to-day, (God grant that the wine be banished From every board away.)

"Thank God for his righteous goodness, For a land not red with strife Thank God for the New Year's blessing, Thank God for the boon of life.

"Oh! beautiful white-robed city, Asleep in the arms of Lakes, I write me a song while it slumbers, And I'!! sing me a song when it wakes."

And thus while I dreamed, and pondered, O'er the glad song I would sing, Lo! I saw the sun was rising, And my muse had taken wing.

MOTHER'S LOSS.

If I could clasp my little babe Upon my breast to-night, I would not mind the blowing wind That shrieketh in affright. Oh, my lost babe! my little babe, My babe with dreamful eyes; Thy bed is cold; and night wind bold Shrieks woeful lullabies.

My breast is softer than the sod; This room, with lighter hearth, Is better place for thy sweet face Than frozen mother earth. Oh, my babe! oh, my lost babe! Oh, babe with waxen hands. I want thee so, I need thee so-- Come from thy mystic lands!

No love that, like a mother's, fills Each corner of the heart; No loss like hers, that rends, and chills, And tears the soul apart. Oh, babe--my babe, my helpless babe! I miss thy little form. Would I might creep where thou dost sleep, And clasp thee through the storm.

I hold thy pillow to my breast, To bring a vague relief; I sing the songs that soothed thy rest Ah me! no cheating grief. My breathing babe! my sobbing babe! I miss thy plaintiff moan, I cannot hear--thou art not near My little one, my own.

Thy father sleeps. He mourns thy loss, But little fathers know The pain that makes a mother toss Through sleepless nights of woe. My clinging babe! my nursing babe! What knows thy father-man-- How my breasts miss thy lips soft kiss None but a mother can. Worn out, I sleep; I wake--I weep I sleep--hush, hush, my dear; Sweet lamb, fear not--Oh, God! I thought-- I thought my babe was here.

THE WOMEN.

See the women--pallid women, of our land! See them fainting, dying, dead, on every hand! See them sinking 'neath a weight Far more burdensome than Fate Ever placed upon poor human beings' backs. See them falling as they go-- By their own hands burdened so-- Paling, failing, sighing, dying, on their tracks!

See the women--ghastly women, on the streets! With their corset-tortured waists, and pinched up feet! Hearts and lungs all out of place, Whalebone forms devoid of grace; Faces pallid, robbed of Nature's rosy bloom; Purple-lidded eyes that tell, With a language known too well, Of the sick-room, death-bed, coffin, pall and tomb.

See the women--sickly women, everywhere, See the cruel, killing dresses that they wear! Bearing round those pounds of jet, Can you wonder that they fret, Pale, and pine, and fall the victims of decay? Is it strange the blooming maid, All so soon should droop and fade-- Like a beast of burden burdened, day on day?

See the women and their dresses as they go, Trimmed and retrimmed, line on line and row on row; Hanging over fragile hips, Driving color from the lips, Dragging down their foolish wearers to the grave! Suicide, and nothing less, In this awful style of dress! Who shall rise to women's rescue, who shall save?

See the women--foolish women, dying fast; What have all their trimmed-up dresses brought at last? Worry, pain, disease and death, Loss of bloom and gasping breath; Doctors' bill, and golden hours thrown away. They have bartered off for these Beauty, comfort, health and ease-- All to ape the fleeting fashion of a day.

LEAN DOWN AND LIFT ME HIGHER

Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine; From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen; How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings, I cannot grasp at once those better things, To which I in my inmost soul aspire, Lean down and lift me higher.

I grope along--not desolate or sad, For youth and hope and health all keep me glad; But too bright sunlight sometimes makes us blind, And I do grope for heights I cannot find; Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire. Lean down and lift me higher.

Not long ago we trod the selfsame way; Thou knewest how, from day to fleeting day; Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet, But only served to hinder and to tire. Lean down and lift me higher.

Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene And left me here, my loved one, Josephine. I am content to stay until the end, For life is full of promise; but, my friend, Canst thou not help me in my best desire? O! lean, and lift me higher.

Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise, And quick to understand and sympathize With all a full soul's needs. It must be so; Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know. Thou must see how I struggle and aspire; Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire. And lean and lift me higher.

A TRIBUTE TO VINNIE REAM.

All hail to Vinnie Ream! Wisconsin's artist daughter, Who stands to-day crowned with the fame Her noble work has brought her. Lift up your brows, hills of the West, And tell the winds the story, How she, our fairest, and our best, Has climbed the heights of glory.

Three cheers for Vinnie Ream! Who fought with tribulation, And brought from death, to lasting life, The martyr of our Nation. Oh, Spite and Envy, flee in shame! And hide your head, black Malice! She sips, to-day, the sweets of Fame, From Fame's emblazoned chalice.

Thank God for Vinnie Ream! The peerless Badger maiden, Who stands a nation's pride, to-day With a nation's honors laden. Ay! crown her Queen at every feast, And strew her path with flowers, Ye people of the South and East, But remember, she is ours!

Bring gifts to Vinnie Ream! I have no gift to offer, Only a little gift of song, And that I humbly proffer;-- Only this little gift to lay Before Columbia's daughter, Who stands crowned with the fame, to-day, That her noble work has brought her.

THE LITTLE BIRD.

The father sits in his lonely room, Outside sings a little bird. But the shadows are laden with death and gloom, And the song is all unheard. The father's heart is the home of sorrow; His breast is the seat of grief! Who will hunt the paper for him on the morrow Who will bring him sweet relief From wearing thought with innocent chat? Who will find his slippers and bring his hat? Still the little bird sings And flutters her wings; The refrain of her song is, "God knows best! He giveth his little children rest." What can she know of these sorrowful things?

The mother sits by the desolate hearth, And weeps o'er a vacant chair. Sorrow has taken the place of mirth Joy has resigned to despair. Bitter the cup the mother is drinking, So bitter the tear-drops start. Sad are the thoughts the mother is thinking-- Oh, they will break her heart. Who will run on errands, and romp and play, And mimic the robins the livelong day? Still the little bird sings And flutters her wings; "God reigns in heaven, and He will keep The dear little children that fall asleep." What can she know of these sorrowful things?

Grandmother sits by the open door, And her tears fall down like rain. Was there ever a household so sad before, Will it ever be glad again? Many unwelcome thoughts come flitting Into the granddame's mind. Who will take up the stitches she drops in knitting? Who will her snuff-box find? Who'!! bring her glasses, and wheel her chair, And tie her kerchief, and comb her hair? Still the little bird sings And flutters her wings; "God above doeth all things well, I sang it the same when my nestlings fell." Ah! this knows the bird of these sorrowful things.

"VAMPIRES"

Lo! here's another corpse exhumed! Another Poet disinterred! Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave, And let the dust be hoed and stirred, And bring the bones of Shakespeare out! 'Twill edify the throng, no doubt!

"The Byron scandal has grown old! That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale. The throng is gaping for more food; We need a new sensation tale; Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound; Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!

"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe' And proved beyond the shade of doubt, He saw no raven, after all. Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out! Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good! Who shall we serve up next for food?"

And who, say I, oh seers of earth! What corpse comes next? I daily look To see if some sage hasn't proved That Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rookh. Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore, Who was a plagiarist, and boor!

Sensation, keep your servants out-- Let them be watchful, and alert; We'll need a new discovery soon. Tell them to dig about the dirt, And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud, To please and edify the crowd.

DYING.

Let me lie upon your breast, Lift me up, and let me twine 'Round your neck my arms, and rest With your cheek laid close to mine. Kiss me, kiss me tenderly; I am dying now, you know; Though you feel no love for me, Clasp me, kiss me, ere I go.

I have lingered many years, For a moment, love, like this; Oh! my darling! let no tears Mar this drop of earthly bliss; Do not weep because you know I am dropping off to rest; I am very glad to go, Life was wearisome at best.

I have loved you, oh, so long, Seeing, knowing, in my brain, That my love was wild and wrong, Unrequited, hopeless, vain; Was it weak, unwomanly, Thus to shrine you in my heart? Oh! I struggled frantically-- Bade your image to depart.

There are hearts that love will pierce, Then depart, and die at will; Such as mine burns long and fierce, Till the heart is cold and still, Dropping, sinking off to rest, Fearing naught of pain or strife: Kiss me-clasp me to your breast, This is all I ask of life.

THE KING AND SIREN