The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems of CheerThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Poems of CheerAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: May 1, 2002 [eBook #3238]Most recently updated: July 13, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1914 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF CHEER ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Poems of CheerAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: May 1, 2002 [eBook #3238]Most recently updated: July 13, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1914 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price
Title: Poems of Cheer
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Release date: May 1, 2002 [eBook #3238]Most recently updated: July 13, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1914 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF CHEER ***
Transcribed from the 1914 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BYELLA WHEELER WILCOX
Decorative graphic
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.12 and 13, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDENLONDON1914
[All rights reserved]
ThisVolume contains the poems published under the title “Poems of Life,” with the exception of about half a dozen, which appear in my other volumes. I have also added a few new verses.
Any edition of my Poems published in Great Britain by any firm except Messrs. Gay and Hancock is pirated and not authentic.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
April12th, 1910.
I step across the mystic border-land,And look upon the wonder-world of Art.How beautiful,how beautiful its hills!And all its valleys,how surpassing fair!
The winding paths that lead up to the heightsAre polished by the footsteps of the great.The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:The chosen few whose feet have trod thereonHave talked with Him,and with the angels walked.
Here are no sounds of discord—no profaneOr senseless gossip of unworthy things—Only the songs of chisels and of pens,Of busy brushes,and ecstatic strainsOf souls surcharged with music most divine.Here is no idle sorrow,no poor griefFor any day or object left behind—For time is counted precious,and hereinIs such complete abandonment of SelfThat tears turn into rainbows,and enhanceThe beauty of the land where all is fair.Awed and afraid,I cross the border-land.Oh,who am I,that I dare enter hereWhere the great artists of the world have trod—The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?Only the singer of a little song;Yet loving Art with such a mighty loveI hold it greater to have won a placeJust on the fair land’s edge,to make my grave,Than in the outer world of greed and gainTo sit upon a royal throne and reign.
PAGE
Worth while
1
The House of Life
3
A Song of Life
6
Prayer
8
In the Long Run
10
As you go through Life
12
Two Sunsets
14
Unrest
18
Artist’s life
20
Nothing but Stones
22
Inevitable
24
The Ocean of Song
26
“It might have been”
29
Momus, God of Laughter
30
I Dream
32
The Sonnet
34
The Past
35
A Dream
36
Uselessness
37
Will
38
Winter Rain
39
Life
40
Burdened
41
Let them go
42
Five Kisses
44
Retrospection
48
Helena
50
Nothing Remains
52
Comrades
54
What Gain?
56
To the West
58
The Land of Content
60
Warning
62
After the Battles are over
63
And they are dumb
71
Night
73
All for me
75
Into Space
77
Through Dim Eyes
79
The Punished
81
Half Fledged
82
The Year
84
The Unattained
85
In the crowd
87
Life and I
89
Guerdon
91
Snowed Under
92
“Leudemanns-on-the-river”
94
Little Blue Hood
97
No Spring
99
Midsummer
101
A Reminiscence
103
A Girl’s Faith
105
Two
107
Slipping Away
109
Is it done?
111
A Leaf
113
Æsthetic
115
Poems of the Week
117
Ghosts
120
Fleeing away
122
All mad
124
Hidden Gems
126
By-and-bye
127
Over the May Hill
129
Foes
131
Friendship
133
Two sat down
135
Bound and free
137
Aquileia
139
Wishes for a little girl
142
Romney
144
My Home
146
To marry or not to marry?
148
An Afternoon
150
River and Sea
152
What happens?
153
Possession
154
It is easy enough to be pleasantWhen life flows by like a song,But the man worth while is the one who will smileWhen everything goes dead wrong.For the test of the heart is trouble,And it always comes with the years,And the smile that is worth the praises of earthIs the smile that shines through tears.
It is easy enough to be prudentWhen nothing tempts you to stray,When without or within no voice of sinIs luring your soul away;But it’s only a negative virtueUntil it is tried by fire,And the life that is worth the honour on earthIs the one that resists desire.
By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,Who had no strength for the strife,The world’s highway is cumbered to-day—They make up the sum of life;But the virtue that conquers passion,And the sorrow that hides in a smile—It is these that are worth the homage on earth,For we find them but once in a while.
All wondering, and eager-eyed, within her porticoI made my plea to Hostess Life, one morning long ago.
“Pray show me this great house of thine, nor close a single door;But let me wander where I will, and climb from floor to floor!
For many rooms, and curious things, and treasures great and smallWithin your spacious mansion lie, and I would see them all.”
Then Hostess Life turned silently, her searching gaze on me,And with no word, she reached her hand, and offered up the key.
It opened first the door of Hope, and long I lingered there,Until I spied the room of Dreams, just higher by a stair.
And then a door whereon the one word “Happiness” was writ;But when I tried the little key I could not make it fit.
It turned the lock of Pleasure’s room, where first all seemed so bright—But after I had stayed awhile it somehow lost its light.
And wandering down a lonely hall, I came upon a roomMarked “Duty,” and I entered it—to lose myself in gloom.
Along the shadowy halls I groped my weary way about,And found that from dull Duty’s room, a door of Toil led out.
It led out to another door, whereon a crimson stainMade sullenly against the dark these words: “The Room of Pain.”
But oh the light, the light, the light, that spilled down from aboveAnd upward wound, the stairs of Faith, right to the Tower of Love!
And when I came forth from that place, I tried the little key—And lo! the door of Happiness swung open, wide and free.
In the rapture of life and of living,I lift up my heart and rejoice,And I thank the great Giver for givingThe 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 dowerOf 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 agesWho 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 youCome out of the shadows of strife—Come out in the sun while I teach youThe 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 surprisesOf beautiful hours.Come up where the rare golden wine isApollo distills in my sight,And your life shall be happy as mine is,And as full of delight.
I do not undertake to sayThat literal answers come from Heaven,But I know this—that when I prayA comfort, a support is givenThat helps me rise o’er earthly thingsAs larks soar up on airy wings.
In vain the wise philosopherPoints out to me my fabric’s flaws,In vain the scientists averThat “all things are controlled by laws.”My life has taught me day by dayThat it availeth much to pray.
I do not stop to reason outThe why and how. I do not care,Since I know this, that when I doubt,Life seems a blackness of despair,The world a tomb; and when I trust,Sweet blossoms spring up in the dust.
Since I know in the darkest hour,If I lift up my soul in prayer,Some sympathetic, loving PowerSends hope and comfort to me there.Since balm is sent to ease my pain,What need to argue or explain?
Prayer has a sweet, refining grace,It educates the soul and heart.It lends a lustre to the face,And by its elevating artIt gives the mind an inner sightThat brings it near the Infinite.
From our gross selves it helps us riseTo something which we yet may be.And so I ask not to be wise,If thus my faith is lost to me.Faith, that with angel’s voice and touchSays, “Pray, for prayer availeth much.”
In the long run fame finds the deserving man.The lucky wight may prosper for a day,But in good time true merit leads the vanAnd vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way.There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,In the long run.
In the long run all godly sorrow pays,There is no better thing than righteous pain,The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.Unmeaning joys enervate in the end,But sorrow yields a glorious dividendIn the long run.
In the long run all hidden things are known,The eye of truth will penetrate the night,And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,However well ’tis guarded from the light.All the unspoken motives of the breastAre fathomed by the years and stand confess’dIn the long run.
In the long run all love is paid by love,Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;The great eternal Government aboveKeeps strict account and will redeem its worth.Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;So beautiful a thing was never lostIn the long run.
Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life;And even when you find them,It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind,And look for the virtue behind them;For the cloudiest night has a hint of lightSomewhere in its shadows hiding;It’s better by far to hunt for a star,Than the spots on the sun abiding.
The current of life runs ever awayTo the bosom of God’s great ocean.Don’t set your force ’gainst the river’s course,And think to alter its motion.Don’t waste a curse on the universe,Remember, it lived before you;Don’t butt at the storm with your puny form,But bend and let it go o’er you.
The world will never adjust itselfTo suit your whims to the letter,Some things must go wrong your whole life long,And the sooner you know it the better.It is folly to fight with the Infinite,And go under at last in the wrestle.The wiser man shapes into God’s plan,As water shapes into a vessel.
In the fair morning of his life,When his pure heart lay in his breast,Panting, with all that wild unrestTo plunge into the great world’s strife
That fills young hearts with mad desire,He saw a sunset. Red and goldThe burning billows surged and rolled,And upward tossed their caps of fire.
He looked. And as he looked, the sightSent from his soul through breast and brainSuch intense joy, it hurt like pain.His heart seemed bursting with delight.
So near the Unknown seemed, so closeHe might have grasped it with his handsHe 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-rillsWent 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 himThe 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 kindShe 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 skyWith unmoved heart and stolid eye;He only knew the West was red.
Then suddenly a fresh young voiceRose, 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 bringsA 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 dreadThan Vengeance takes in creed-taught minds,This certain doom that blunts and blinds,And strikes the holiest feelings dead.
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 gildingThe 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 onlyLies sweet contentment and blest repose.”
With bee and bird for her maids of honourCame Princess Summer in robes of green.And the King of day smiled down upon herAnd 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 hedgesLike royal children in sportive play.
My restless soul for a little seasonRevelled 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 missesThat 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 breastIs the same old longing, the same old passion.O where is the treasure which men call rest?
Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,Mad with melody, rhythm—rifeFrom 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 blendsTogether 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 nightsWhen 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.
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 towerWas 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 rollBut only the glorious organ’s sacred pealingSeemed 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 grindingOf soul with body, heart with heated brain;Nothing to show the purpose of this blindingAnd 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 splendourAnd pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling,Doth bring me closer to the InfiniteThan all that throng of worldly people kneelingIn blaze of gorgeous light.
To-day I was so weary and I layIn 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,” whenThe world, with many a pleasure and bright joy,Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of menAnd 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.
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 unbeholdenBy 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 watersWere made from the gathered-up tearsThat were wept by the sons and the daughtersOf long-vanished eras and spheres.Like white sands of heaven the spray isThat falls all the happy day long,And whoever it touches straightway isMade glad with the spirit of song.
Up, up to the clouds where their hoaryCrowned heads melt away in the skies,The beautiful mountains of gloryEach 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 legionsAnd 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 givenThe 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 daughtersOf 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 mountainsGush 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.
We will be what we could be. Do not say,“It might have been, had not or that, or this.”No fate can keep us from the chosen way;He only might, whois.
We will do what we could do. Do not dreamChance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;He does, who could achieve.
We will climb where we could climb. Tell me notOf adverse storms that kept thee from the height.What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?He always climbs who might.
I do not like the phrase, “It might have been!”It lacks all force, and life’s best truths pervertsFor I believe we have, and reach, and win,Whatever our deserts.
Though with gods the world is cumbered,Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered,Never god was known to beWho 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 keepGuard above us while we sleep,’Tis not Venus, she whose duty’Tis to give us love and beauty;Hail to these, and others, afterMomus, 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 meWhile 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 downBring their pains and troubles after;All save Momus, god of laughter.He alone gives constant joy.Hail to Momus, happy boy.
Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of LifeIn the full meaning of that splendid word.Its subtle music which few men have heard,Though all may hear it, sounding through earth’s strife.Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissedLifting their lovely peaks above the dust;Its treasures which no touch of time can rust,Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst,Its certain purpose, its serene repose,Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes,This is my dream of Life.
Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of LoveAs radiant and brilliant as a star.As changeless, too, as that fixed light afarWhich glorifies vast worlds of space above.Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath,Before it bursts in fury; and as deepAs the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep,And sad as birth, and beautiful as death.As fervent as the fondest soul could crave,Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave.This is my dream of Love.
Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dreamIs beautiful and comforting and blest,Complete with certain promises of rest,Divine content, and ecstasy supreme.When that strange essence, author of all faith,That subtle something, which cries for the light,Like a lost child who wanders in the night,Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death,Shall find eternal progress, or sublimeAnd satisfying slumber for all time.This is my dream of Death.
Alone it stands in Poesy’s fair land,A temple by the muses set apart;A perfect structure of consummate art,By artists builded and by genius planned,Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand,Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,Like a fine carving in a common mart,Only the favoured few will understand.Achef-d’œvretoiled over with great care,Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire,An ancient bit of pottery, too rareTo please or hold aught save the special eye,These only with the sonnet can compare.
Fling my past behind me, like a robeWorn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weepAnd dwell up on its beauty, and its dyesOf Oriental splendour, or complainThat I must needs discard it? I can weaveUpon the shuttles of the future yearsA fabric far more durable. Subdued,It may be, in the blending of its hues,Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleamOf golden warp shall shoot it through and through,While over all a fadeless lustre lies,And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,My new robe shall be richer than the old.
That was a curious dream; I thought the threeGreat planets that are drawing near the sunWith such unerring certainty begunTo talk together in a mighty glee.They spoke of vast convulsions which would beThroughout the solar system—the rare funOf watching haughty stars drop, one by one,And vanish in a seething vapour sea.
I thought I heard them comment on the earth—That small dark object—doomed beyond a doubt.They wondered if live creatures moved aboutIts tiny surface, deeming it of worth.And then they laughed—’twas such a singing shoutThat I awoke and joined too in their mirth.
Let mine not be that saddest fate of allTo live beyond my greater self; to seeMy faculties decaying, as the treeStands 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 blastWhich fells the green tree to the earth to-dayIs 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.”
There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,Can circumvent or hinder or controlThe 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 forceOf 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 fortunateIs 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.
Falling upon the frozen world lastI 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 whiteAnd 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, whileI look straight in the world’s bold eyes, and smile.
Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee,Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time.There is no path too steep for him to climb.With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free,As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea,By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime,And all the world seems motion set to rhyme,Till, tired out, he cries, “Now carry me!”In vain we murmur; “Come,” Life says, “Fair play!”And seizes on us. God! he goads us so!He does not let us sit down all the day.At each new step we feel the burden grow,Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go,Watching for Death to meet us on the way.
“Genius, a man’s weapon, a woman’s burden.”—Lamartine.
“Genius, a man’s weapon, a woman’s burden.”—Lamartine.
Dear God! there is no sadder fate in lifeThan to be burdened so that you can notSit down contented with the common lotOf happy mother and devoted wife.
To feel your brain wild and your bosom rifeWith all the sea’s commotion; to be fraughtWith fires and frenzies which you have not sought,And weighed down with the wild world’s weary strife;
To feel a fever always in your breast;To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame,A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name;To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest,And know, however great your meed of fame,You are but a weak woman at the best.
Let the dream go. Are there not other dreamsIn vastness of clouds hid from thy sightThat yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams,And shoot the shadows through and through with light?What matters one lost vision of the night?Let the dream go!!
Let the hope set. Are there not other hopesThat yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropesBefore some light is lent it from on high;What folly to think happiness gone by!Let the hope set!
Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys,Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom?Severe must be the winter that destroysThe hardy roots locked in their silent tomb.What cares the earth for her brief time of gloomLet the joy fade!
Let the love die. Are there not other lovesAs beautiful and full of sweet unrest,Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves?They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast,And thou shalt say of each, “Lo, this is best!”Let the love die!
Love breathed a secret to her listening heart,And said “Be silent.” Though she guarded it,And dwelt as one within a world apart,Yet sun and star seemed by that secret lit.And where she passed, each whispering wind ablow,And every little blossom in the sod,Called joyously to her, “We know, we know,For are we not the intimates of God?”Life grew so radiant, and so opulent,That when her fragile body and her brainBy mortal throes of agony were rent,She felt a curious rapture in her pain.Then, after anguish, came the supreme bliss—They brought the little baby, for her kiss!
There was a little pause between the dances;Without, somewhere, a tinkling fountain played.The dusky path was lit by ardent glancesAs forth they fared, a lover and a maid.He chose a nook, from curious eyes well hidden—All redolent with sweet midsummer charm,And by the great primeval instinct bidden,He drew her in the shelter of his arm.The words that long deep in his heart had trembledFound sudden utterance; she at first dissembled,Refused her lips, and half withdrew her hand,Then murmured “Yes,” and yielded, woman fashion,Her virgin mouth to young love’s kiss of passion.
As fleecy clouds trail back across the skies,Showing the sweet young moon in azure space,The lifted veil revealed her shining face—A sudden wonder to his eager eyes.In that familiar beauty lurked surprise:For now the wife stood in the maiden’s place—With conscious dignity, and woman’s grace,And love’s large pride grown trebly fair and wise.
The world receded, leaving them alone.The universe was theirs, from sphere to sphere,And life assumed new meaning, and new worth.Love held no privilege they did not own,And when they kissed each other without fear,They understood why God had made the earth.
Sequestered in their calm domestic bower,They sat together. He in manhood’s primeAnd she a matron in her fullest flower.The mantel clock gave forth a warning chime.She put her work aside; his bright cigarGrew pale, and crumbled in an ashen heap.The lights went out, save one remaining starThat watched beside the children in their sleep.She hummed a little song and nestled near,As side by side they went to their repose.His arm about her waist, he whispered “Dear,”And pressed his lips upon her mouth’s full rose—The sacred sweetness of their wedded lifeBreathed in that kiss of husband and of wife.
The young see heaven—but to the old who waitThe final call, the hills of youth ariseMore beautiful than shores of Paradise.Beside a glowing and voracious grateA dozing couple dream of yesterday;The islands of a vanished past appear,Bringing forgotten names and faces near;While lost in mist, the present fades away.The fragrant winds of tender memories blowAcross the gardens of the “Used-to-be!”They smile into each other’s eyes, and seeThe bride and bridegroom of the long ago.And tremulous lips, pressed close to faded cheekLove’s silent tale of deathless passion speak.