The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems of ExperienceThis 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 ExperienceAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #5170]Most recently updated: July 16, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1917 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF EXPERIENCE ***
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 ExperienceAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #5170]Most recently updated: July 16, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1917 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price
Title: Poems of Experience
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #5170]Most recently updated: July 16, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1917 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF EXPERIENCE ***
Transcribed from the 1917 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
Decorative graphic
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
1917
[All rights reserved]
Published1910
Reprinted1911, 1912, 1913, 1915, 1916, 1917
Anyedition of my poems published in England by any firm except Messrs. Gay and Hancock is pirated and not authentic.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
April12, 1910.
PAGE
The Empty Bowl
1
Keep Going
2
A Prayer
4
The London ‘Bobby’
5
Read at the Benefit of Clara Morris
7
Two Ghosts
10
Woman
13
Battle Hymn of the Women
17
Memories
19
See?
21
The Purpose
23
The White Man
24
A Moorish Maid
26
Lincoln
28
I know not
29
Interlude
30
Resurrection
31
The Voices of the City
32
If Christ came Questioning
36
England, Awake!
38
Be not attached
39
An Episode
41
The Voice of the Voiceless
43
Time’s Defeat
47
The Hymn of the Republic
49
The Radiant Christ
53
At Bay
56
The Birth of Jealousy
58
Summer’s Farewell
61
The Goal
63
Christ Crucified
65
The Trip to Mars
69
Fiction and Fact
71
Progress
72
How the White Rose Came
73
I look to Science
75
Appreciation
77
The Awakening
78
Most blest is he
80
Nirvana
82
Life
84
Two men
86
Only be still
88
Pardoned Out
89
The Tides
91
Progression
94
Acquaintance
95
Attainment
96
The tower-room
97
Father
99
The new Hawaiian girl
101
I held the golden vessel of my soulAnd prayed that God would fill it from on high.Day after day the importuning cryGrew stronger—grew, a heaven-accusing doleBecause no sacred waters laved my bowl.‘So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou denyThe little needed for a soul’s supply?I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.’Then from the vast invisible Somewhere,A voice, as one love-authorised by Him,Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled.‘Who wants the waters must the bowl prepare;Pour out the self, that chokes it to the brim,But emptied vessels, from the source are filled.’
Is the goal distant, and troubled the road,And the way long?And heavy your load?Then gird up your courage, and say ‘I am strong,’And keep going.
Is the work weary, and endless the grindAnd petty the pay?Then brace up your mindAnd say ‘Something better is coming my way,’And keep doing.
Is the drink bitter life pours in your cup—Is the taste gall?Then smile and look upAnd say ‘God is with me whatever befall,’And keep trusting.
Is the heart heavy with hope long deferred,And with prayers that seem vain?Keep saying the word—And that which you strive for you yet shall attain.Keep praying.
Just as I shape the purport of my thought,Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot.Let each ill thought that in my heart may be,Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.
Until I weed the garden of my mindFrom all that is unworthy and unkind,Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord?Then as Ithink, so must be my reward.
Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength,That which we plant, we gather in at length.Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me,And as my thoughts, so let my future be.
Here in my cosy corner,Before a blazing log,I’m thinking of cold LondonWrapped in its killing fog;And, like a shining beaconAbove the picture grim,I see the London ‘Bobby,’And sing my song for him.
I see his stalwart figure,I see his kindly face,I hear his helpful answerAt any hour or place.For, though you seek some by-wayLong miles from his own beat,He tells you all about it,And how to find the street.
He looks like some bold Viking,This king of earth’s police—Yet in his voice lies feeling,And in his eye lies peace;He knows and does his duty—(What higher praise is there?)And London’s lords and paupersAlike receive his care.
He has a regal bearing,Yet one that breathes repose;It is the look and mannerOf one whothinksandknows.Oh, men who govern nations,In old worlds or in new,Turn to the London ‘Bobby’And learn a thing or two.
(AMERICA’S GREAT EMOTIONAL ACTRESS)
The Radiant Rulers of Mystic RegionsWhere souls of artists are fitted for birthGathered together their lovely legionsAnd fashioned a woman to shine on earth.They bathed her in splendour,They made her tender,They gave her a nature both sweet and wild;They gave her emotions like storm-stirred oceans,And they gave her the heart of a little child.
These Radiant Rulers (who are not humanNor yet divine like the gods above)Poured all their gifts in the soul of woman,That fragile vessel meant only for love.Still more they taught her,Still more they brought her,Till they gave her the world for a harp one day:And they bade her string it,They bade her ring it,While the stars all wondered to hear her play.
She touched the strings in a master fashion,She uttered the cry of a world’s despair:Its long hid secret, its pent-up passion,She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.For oh! the heart of her,That was the art of her.Great with the feeling that makes men kin.Art unapproachable,Art all uncoachable,Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.
The earth turns ever an ear unheedingTo the sorrows of art, as it cries ‘encore.’And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding,And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.She knew the trend of it,She knew the end of it—Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.Bound to the altarOf art, could she falter?Then came a silence—the music was still.
And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it;In waves unbroken it circles the earth:And we catch in the light of her dauntless spiritA gleam from the centre that gave her birth.Still is the fame of herFelt in the name of her—But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain;No hand has taken it,No hand can waken it—For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.
Two dead men boarded a spectral shipIn the astral Port of Space;On that ghost-filled barque, they met in the dark,And halted, face to face.
‘Now whither away’—called one of the ghosts,‘This ship sets sail for Earth.On the astral plane you must remain,Where the newly dead have birth.’
‘But I could not stay and I would not stay,’The other ghost replied;‘I must hurry back to the old Earth trackAnd stand at my loved one’s side.
‘She weeps for me in her lonely room,In the land from whence I came;Oh! stow me away in this ship, I pray,For I hear her call my name.’
‘You must not go, and you shall not go,’The first ghost cried in wrath.‘Your work is planned, in the astral land,And a guide will show you the path.’
‘But the one I love’—‘I loved her too,’The first ghost stood and cried;‘And year on year I waited here,Yea, waited till you died.
‘For I would not come between you two,Nor shadow her joy with fear,But mine is the right, I claim this nightTo visit the earthly sphere.
‘For you are dead, and I am dead,And you had her long—so long.And to look on the grace of her worshipped face,Ah! now it can do no wrong.
‘I am fettered to Earth by love of her,And hers is the spell divine,That can help me rise, to the realm that liesJust over the astral line.
‘I have kept to the laws of God and man,I have suffered and made no moan;Now my little share of joy, I swearI will have—and have it alone.’
A skeleton crew the anchor drew,And the ship from the port swung free;With a muffled clang the ghost bell rang,And the boat sailed out to sea.
And one ghost stood on the deck and laughed,As only a glad ghost can;While a swooning soul was dragged to his goal,To work out the astral span.
And a woman wept, and prayed ere she slept,For a dream to ease her pain;But she dreamed instead of a man long dead,Who had loved her all in vain.
Strange are the ways that her feet have trodSince first she was set in the path of duty,Finished and fair by the hand of God,To carry her message of love and beauty.Delicate creature of light and shade,She gleamed like an opal, on wide worlds under:And earth looked up to her half afraid,While heaven looked down at her, full of wonder.
Flame of the comet and mist of the moon,And ray of the sun all mingled in her.And the heart of her asked but a single boon—That love should seek her, and find her, and win her.She grasped the scope of the First IntentThat made her kingdomfor her, no other,And joyfully into her place she went—The primal mate, and the primal mother.
Large was that kingdom and vast her sphere,And lightly she lifted and bore each burden.Lightly she laughed in the eyes of fear,For love was her recompense, love her guerdon.And never in camp, or in cave, or in home,Rose voice of mother or mate complaining.And never the foot of her sought to roam,Till love in the heart of the man seemed waning.
In the broad rich furrows by woman turnedMan, unwitting, set plough and harrow.For worlds to conquer she had not yearned,Till he spoke of her feminine sphere as ‘narrow.’The lullaby changed to a martial strain—When he took her travail, and song for granted—And forth she forged in his own domain—Till the strange ‘new woman,’ the old supplanted.
‘Strange’ with the glow of a wakened soul,And ‘new’ with the purpose of large endeavour,She turned her face to the higher goal—To the higher goal it is turned for ever.Trade and science and craft and art,Have opened their doors to the call of woman;And greater she grows in her greater part,More tenderly wise, and more sweetly human.
Brave foremothers of freedom’s birthSmile through space on your splendid daughters.At one with liberty lighting the earth,Their torches flame o’er the darkest waters.They lend a lustre to sea and land:They sweeten the world with their wholesome graces:As out in the harbour of life they standTo cheer and welcome the coming races.
Brave forefathers and heroes who foughtUnder the flag of the Revolution,War was the price of the freedom you bought,Butpeaceis the watchword of Evolution.The progress of woman means progress of peace,She wars on war, and its hosts alarming;And her great love battle will never cease,Till the glory is seen of a world disarming.
The woman wonder with heart of flame,The coming man of the race will find her.For petty purpose and narrow aim,And fault and flaw she will leave behind her.He grown tender, and she grown wise,They shall enter the Eden by both created;The broadened kingdom of Paradise,And love, and mate, as the first pair mated.
They are waking, they are waking,In the east, and in the west;They are throwing wide their windows to the sun;And they see the dawn is breaking,And they quiver with unrest,For they know their work is waiting to be done.
They are waking in the city,They are waking on the farm;They are waking in the boudoir, and the mill;And their hearts are full of pityAs they sound the loud alarm,For the sleepers, who in darkness, slumber, still.
In the guarded harem prison,Where they smother under veils,And all echoes of the world are walled away;Though the sun has not yet risen,Yet the ancient darkness pales,And the sleepers, in their slumber, dream of day.
And their dream shall grow in splendourTill each sleeper wakes, and stirs;Till she breaks from old traditions, and is free;And the world shall rise, and renderUnto woman what is hers,As it welcomes in the race that is to be.
Unto woman, God the MakerGave the secret of His plan;It is written out in cipher, on her soul;From the darkness, you must take her,To the light of day, O man!Would you know the mighty meaning of the scroll.
I am thinking of the SpringtimeOn the farm out in the West,When my world held nothing for me that I wanted,(Save a courage all undaunted),And my foolish little rhymes,Were but heart beats, rung in chimes,That I sounded, just to ease my life’s unrest.Yes, I sang them, and I rang them,Just to ease my youth’s unrest.
When I heard the name of London,In that early day, afar,In that Springtime of my Country over yonder,Then I used to sit and wonderIf the day would come to me,When my ship should cross the sea,To the land that seemed as distant as a star.In my dreaming, ever gleamingLike a distant unknown star.
Now in London in the Springtime,I am sitting here, your guest.Nay—I think it is a vision, or a fancy—Part of dreamland Necromancy;And I question: is it trueThat the great warm hearts of you,Heard the winging of that singing in the West,Heard the chiming of my rhymingFrom the farmhouse in the West?
Let me linger in the fancy,For the soul of me is stirredAs I dream that I am sitting here among you;And the songs that I have sung youShall grow stronger through the artOf heart speaking unto heart,Through the gladness of the singer who is heardLo! my songs have crossed the oceanBut the voice of my emotion finds no word.
If one proves weak who you fancied strong,Or false who you fancied true,Just ease the smart of your wounded heartBy the thought that it is not you!
If many forget a promise made,And your faith falls into the dust,Then look meanwhile in your mirror and smile,And say, ‘Iam one to trust!’
If you search in vain for an ageing faceUnharrowed by fretful fears,Then make right now (and keep) a vowTo grow in grace with the years.
If you lose your faith in the word of manAs you go from the port of youth,Just say as you sail, ‘Iwill not failTo keep to the course of truth!’
For this is the way, and the only way—At least so it seems to me.It is up to you,to be,and do,What you look for in others.See?
Over and over the task was set,Over and over I slighted the work,But ever and alway I knew that yetI must face and finish the toil I shirk.
Over and over the whip of painHas spurred and punished with blow on blow;As ever and alway I tried in vainTo shun the labour I hated so.
Over and over I came this wayFor just one purpose: O stubborn soul!Turn with a will to your work to-day,And learn the lesson ofSelf-Control.
Wherever the white man’s feet have trod(Oh far does the white man stray)A bold road rifles the virginal sod,And the forest wakes out of its dream of God,To yield him the right of way.For this is the law:By the power of thought,For worse,or for better,are miracles wrought.
Wherever the white man’s pathway leads,(Far, far has that pathway gone)The Earth is littered with broken creeds—And alway the dark man’s tent recedes,And the white man pushes on.For this is the law:Be it good or ill,All things must yield to the stronger will.
Wherever the white man’s light is shed,(Oh far has that light been thrown)Though Nature has suffered and beauty bled,Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead,And the might of the race has grown.For this is the law:Be it cruel or kind,The Universe sways to the power of mind.
Above her veil a shrouded Moorish maidShowed melting eyes, as limpid as a lake;A brow untouched by care; a band of jetty hair,And nothing more. The all-concealing haikFell to her high arched instep. At her sideAn old duenna walked; her withered faceHalf covered only, since no lingering graceBespoke the beauty once her master’s pride.
Above her veil, the Moorish maid beheldThe modern world, in Paris-decked Algiers;Saw happy lad and lass, in love’s contentment pass,Or in sweet wholesome friendship, free from fears.She saw fair matrons, walking arm-in-armWith life-long lovers, time-endeared, and thenShe saw the ardent look in eyes of men,And thrilled and trembled with a vague alarm.
Above her veil she saw the stuccoed courtThat led to dim secluded rooms within.She followed, dutiful, the dame unbeautiful,Who told her that the Christian world means sin.Some day, full soon, she would go forth a bride—Of one whose face she never had beheld.Something within her, wakened, and rebelled;She flung aside her veil, and cried, and cried.
When God created this good worldA few stupendous peaks were hurledFrom His strong hand, and they remainThe wonder of the level plain.But these colossal heights are rare,While shifting sands are everywhere.
So with the race. The centuries passAnd nations fall like leaves of grass.They die, forgotten and unsung;While straight from God some souls are flung,To live immortal and sublime.So lives great Lincoln for all time.
Death! I know not what room you are abiding in,But I will go my way,Rejoicing day by day,Nor will I flee or stayFor fear I tread the path you may be hiding in.
Death! I know not, if my small barque be nearing you;But if you are at sea,Still there my sails float free;‘What is to be will be.’Nor will I mar the happy voyage by fearing you.
Death! I know not, what hour or spot you wait for me;My days untroubled flow,Just trusting on, I go,For oh, I know, I know,Death is but Life that holds some glad new fate for me.
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;The headstones thicken along the way,And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger,For those who walk with us day by day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;The courage is lesser to do and dare;And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower,And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things in the world seem truer;And the better things of earth seem best,And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer,And love isallas our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone;For no man knows on the morrow whetherWe two pass on—or but one alone.
Pausing a moment ere the day was done,While yet the earth was scintillant with light,I backward glanced. From valley, plain, and height,At intervals, where my life-path had run,Rose cross on cross; and nailed upon each oneWas my dead self. And yet that gruesome sightLent sudden splendour to the falling night,Showing the conquests that my soul had won.
Up to the rising stars I looked and cried,‘There is no death! for year on year, re-bornI wake to larger life: to joy more great,So many times have I been crucified,So often seen the resurrection morn,I go triumphant, though new Calvaries wait.
The voices of the city—merged and swelledInto a mighty dissonance of sound,And from the medley rose these broken strainsIn changing time and ever-changing keys.
Pleasure seekers, silken clad,Led by cherub Day,Ours the duty to be glad,Ours the toil of play.
Sleep has bound the commonplace,Pleasure rules the dawn.Small hours set the merry paceAnd we follow on.
We must use the joys of earth,All its cares we’ll keep;Night was made for youth and mirth,Day was made for sleep.
Time has cut his beard, and lo!He is but a boy,Singing, on with him we go,Ah! but life is joy.
We are the vendors of beauty,We the purveyors for hell;The carnal bliss of a purchased kissAnd the pleasures that blight, we sell.God pity us; God pity the world.
We are the sad race-victimsOf the misused force in man,Of the great white flame burned black with shameAnd lost to the primal plan.God pity us; God pity the world.
We are the Purpose of BeingGone wrong in the thought of the world.The torch for its hand made a danger brandAnd into the darkness hurled.God pity us; God pity the world.
We are the toilers in the realm of night(Long, long the hours of night),We are the human lever, wheel, and bolt,That keeps the civic vehicle from jolt,And jar upon the shining track of day(The unremembered day).
We sleep away the sunlit hours of life(Unsatisfied, sad life),We wake in shadow and we rise in gloom.False as a wanton’s artificial bloomIs that made light we labour in till dawn(The lonely, laggard dawn).
Like visions half remembered in a dream(A strange and broken dream)Our children’s faces, seen but while they sleep,Within our hearts these weary hours we keep.We are the toilers in the realm of night(Long, long the hours of night).
We are hope and faith and sorrow,We are peace and pain and passion,We are ardent lovers kissing,We are happy mothers crooning,We are rosy children dreaming,We are honest labour sleeping,We are wholesome pleasure laughing,We are wakeful riches feasting,We are lifted spirits praying,We the voices of the city.
Out of the medley rose these broken strains,In changing time and ever-changing keys.
If Christ came questioning His world to-day,(If Christ came questioning,)‘What hast thou done to glorify thy God,Since last My feet this lower earth plane trod?’How could I answer Him; and in what wayOne evidence of my allegiance bring;If Christ came questioning.
If Christ came questioning, to me alone,(If Christ came questioning,)I could not point to any church or shrineAnd say, ‘I helped build up this house of Thine;Behold the altar, and the corner stone’;I could not show one proof of such a thing;If Christ came questioning.
If Christ came questioning, on His demand,(If Christ came questioning,)No pagan soul converted to His creedCould I proclaim; or say, that word or deedOf mine, had spread the faith in any land;Or sent it forth, to fly on stronger wing;If Christ came questioning.
If Christ came questioning the soul of me,(If Christ came questioning,)I could but answer, ‘Lord, my little partHas been to beat the metal of my heart,Into the shape I thought most fit for Thee;And at Thy feet, to cast the offering;Shouldst Thou come questioning.
‘From out the earth-fed furnaces of desire,(Ere Thou cam’st questioning,)This formless and unfinished gift I brought,And on life’s anvil flung it down, white hot:A glowing thing, of selfishness and fire,With blow on blow, I made the anvil ring;(Ere Thou cam’st questioning).
‘The hammer, Self-Control, beat hard on it;(Ere Thou cam’st questioning,)And with each blow, rose fiery sparks of pain;I bear their scars, on body, soul, and brain.Long, long I toiled; and yet, dear Lord, unfit,And all unworthy, is the heart I bring,To meet Thy questioning.’
A beautiful great lady, past her prime,Behold her dreaming in her easy chair;Gray robed, and veiled; in laces old and rare,Her smiling eyes see but the vanished time,Of splendid prowess, and of deeds sublime.Self satisfied she sits, all unawareThat peace has flown before encroaching care,And through her halls stalks hunger, linked with crime.
England, awake! from dreams of what has been,Look on whatis, and put the past away.Speak to your sons, until they understand.England, awake! for dreaming now is sin;In all your ancient wisdom, rise to-day,And save the glory of your menaced land.
‘Be not attached.’ So runs the great commandFor those who seek to ‘know’ and ‘understand.’Who sounds the waters of the deeper seaMust first draw up his anchor and go free.
But not for me, that knowledge. I must waitUntil again I enter through life’s gate.I am not brave enough to sail awayTo farther seas, and leave this beauteous bay.
Love barnacled, my anchor lies; and oh!I would not lift it if I could, and goAll unattached, to find those truths which lieFar out at sea, beneath a lonely sky.
Though peace of heart, and happiness of soul,Await the seeker at that farther goal,With love and all its rapture and its pain,Close to the shores of earth I must remain.
Nor yet would I relinquish my sweet dreamTo gain possession of the Fact supreme.I am attached, and well content to stay,Learning such truths as love may send my way.
Along the narrow Moorish streetA blue-eyed soldier strode.(Ah, well-a-day)Veiled from her lashes to her feetShe stepped from her abode,(Ah, lack-a-day).
Now love may guard a favoured wifeWho leaves the harem door;(Ah, well-a-day)But hungry hearted is her lifeWhen she is one of four.(Ah, lack-a-day.)
If black eyes glow with sudden fireAnd meet warm eyes of blue—(Ah, well-a-day).The old, old story of desireRepeats itself anew.(Ah, lack-a-day.)
When bugles blow the soldier flies—Though bitter tears may fall(Ah, lack-a-day).A Moorish child with blue,blue eyesPlays in the harem hall.(Ah, well-a-day.)
I am the voice of the voiceless;Through me the dumb shall speak;Till the deaf world’s ear be made to hearThe cry of the wordless weak.From street, from cage, and from kennel,From jungle and stall, the wailOf my tortured kin proclaims the sinOf the mighty against the frail.
I am a ray from the centre;And I will feed God’s spark,Till a great light glows in the night and showsThe dark deeds done in the dark.And full on the thoughtless sleeperShall flash its glaring flame,Till he wakens to see what crimes may beCloaked under an honoured name.
The same Force formed the sparrowThat fashioned man, the king;The God of the Whole gave a spark of soulTo furred and to feathered thing.And I am my brother’s keeper,And I will fight his fight,And speak the word for beast and bird,Till the world shall set things right.
Let no voice cavil at Science—The strong torch-bearer of God;For brave are his deeds, though dying creeds,Must fall where his feet have trod.But he who would trample kindnessAnd mercy into the dust—He has missed the trail, and his quest will fail:He is not the guide to trust.
For love is the true religion,And love is the law sublime;And all that is wrought, where love is not,Will die at the touch of time.And Science, the great revealer,Must flame his torch at the Source;And keep it bright with that holy light,Or his feet shall fail on the course.
Oh, never a brute in the forest,And never a snake in the fen,Or ravening bird, starvation stirred,Has hunted its prey like men.For hunger, and fear, and passionAlone drive beasts to slay,But wonderful man, the crown of the plan,Tortures, and kills, for play.
He goes well fed from his table;He kisses his child and wife;Then he haunts a wood, till he orphans a brood,Or robs a deer of its life.He aims at a speck in the azure;Winged love, that has flown at a call;It reels down to die, and he lets it lie;His pleasure was seeing it fall.
And one there was, weary of laurels,Of burdens and troubles of State;So the jungle he sought, with the beautiful thoughtOf shooting a she lion’s mate.And one came down from the pulpit,In the pride of a duty done,And his cloth sufficed, as his emblem of Christ,While murder smoked out of his gun.
One strays from the haunts of fashionWith an indolent, unused brain;But his sluggish heart feels a sudden startIn the purpose of giving pain.And the fluttering flock of pigeons,As they rise on eager wings,From prison to death, bring a catch in his breath:Oh,the rapture of killing things!
Now, this is the race as we find it,Where love, in the creed, spells hate;And where bird and beast meet a foe in the priestAnd in rulers of fashion and State.But up to the Kingdom of ThinkersHas risen the cry of our kin;And the weapons of thought are burnished and broughtTo clash with the bludgeons of sin.
Far Christ, of a million churches,Come near to the earth again;Be more than a Name; be a living Flame;‘Make Good’ in the hearts of men.Shine full on the path of Science,And show it the heights above,Where vast truths lie for the searching eyeThat shall follow the torch of love.
Time has made conquest of so many thingsThat once were mine. Swift-footed, eager youthThat ran to meet the years; bold brigand health,That broke all laws of reason unafraid,And laughed at talk of punishment.
Close ties of blood and friendship, joy of life,Which reads its music in the major keyAnd will not listen to a minor strain—These things and many more are spoils of time.
Yet as a conqueror who only stormsThe outposts of a town, and finds the fortToo strong to be assailed, so time retreatsAnd knows his impotence. He cannot take
My three great jewels from the crown of life:Love, sympathy, and faith; and year on yearHe sees them grow in lustre and in worth,And glowers by me, plucking at his beard,And dragging, as he goes, a useless scythe.
Once in the dark he plotted with his friendGrim Death, to steal my treasures. Death replied:‘They are immortal, and beyond thy reach,I could but set them in another sphere,To shine with greater lustre.’
Time and DeathPassed on together, knowing their defeat;And I am singing by the road of life.
I have listened to the sighing of the burdened and the bound,I have heard it change to crying, with a menace in the sound;I have seen the money-getters pass unheeding on the way,As they went to forge new fetters for the people day by day.
Then the voice of Labour thundered forth its purpose and its need,And I marvelled, and I wondered, at the cold dull ear of greed;For as chimes, in some great steeple, tell the passing of the hour,So the voices of the people tell the death of purchased power.
All the gathered dust of ages, God is brushing from His book;He is opening up its pages, and He bids His children look;And in shock and conflagration, and in pestilence and strife,He is speaking to the nations, of the brevity of life.
Mother Earth herself is shaken by our sorrows and our crimes;And she bids her sons awaken to the portent of the times;With her travail pains upon her, she is hurling from their placeAll the minions of dishonour, to admit the Coming Race.
By the voice of Justice bidden, she has torn the mask from might;All the shameful secrets hidden, she is dragging into light;And whoever wrongs his neighbour must be brought to judgmentnow,Though he wear the badge of Labour, or a crown upon his brow.
There is growth in Revolution, if the word is understood;It is one with Evolution, up from self, to brotherhood;He who utters it unheeding, bent on self, or selfish gain,His own day of doom is speeding, though he toil, or though he reign.
God is calling to the masses, to the peasant, and the peer;He is calling to all classes, that the crucial hour is near;For each rotting throne must tremble, and fall broken in the dust,With the leaders who dissemble, and betray a people’s trust.
Still the voice of God is calling; and above the wreck I see,And beyond the gloom appalling, the great Government-to-Be.
From the ruins it has risen, and my soul is overjoyed,For the school supplants the prison, and there are no ‘unemployed.’
And there are no children’s faces at the spindle or the loom;They are out in sunny places, where the other sweet things bloom;God has purified the alleys, He has set the white slaves free,And they own the hills and valleys in this Government to-Be.
Arise, O master artist of the age,And paint the picture which at once shall beImmortal art and bless’d prophecy.The bruiséd vision of the world assuage;To earth’s dark book add one illumined page,So scintillant with truth, that all who seeShall break from superstition and stand free.Now let this wondrous work thy hand engage.The mortal sorrow of the Nazarene,Too long has been faith’s symbol and its sign;Too long a dying Saviour has sufficed.Give us the glowing emblem which shall meanMankind awakened to the Self Divine;The living emblem of the Radiant Christ.
Too long the crucifix on Calvary’s heightHas cast its shadow on the human heart.Let now Religion’s great co-worker Art,Limn on the background of departing night,The shining Face all palpitant with light,And God’s true message to the world impart.Go tell each toiler in the home and mart,‘Lo, Christ is with ye, if ye seek aright.’The world forgets the vital word Christ taught;The only word the world has need to know:The answer to creation’s problem—Love.The world remembers what the Christ forgot;His cross of anguish and His death of woe;Release the martyr, and the Cross remove!
For now the former things have passed away,And man, forgetting that which lies behind,And ever pressing forward, seeks to findThe prize of his high calling. Send a rayFrom art’s bright sun to fortify the day,And blaze the trail to every mortal mind.The new religion lies in being kind;Faith stands and works, where once it knelt to pray;Faith counts its gain, where once it reckoned loss;Ascending paths its patient feet have trod;Man looks within, and finds salvation there.Release the suffering Saviour from the Cross,And give the waiting world its Radiant God.
Wife
Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast.Tell me there are no memories of your pastThat mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
Husband
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred.Does not the deed speak louder than the word?(Dear God, that old dream woke again and stirred.)
Wife
As you love me, you never loved before?Though oft you say it, say it yet once more.My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
Husband
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child,My life is yours by memory undefiled.(It stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
Wife
You never knew a happier hour than this?We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss,Nor other kisses, sweet as my own kiss?
Husband
I was a thirsty field, long parched with drouth;You were the warm rain, blowing from the south.(But, ah, the crimson madness ofhermouth!)
Wife
You would not, if you could, go down life’s trackFor just one little moment and bring backSome vanished rapture that you miss or lack?
Husband
I am content. You are my life, my all.(One burning hour, but one, could I recall;God, how men lie when driven to the wall!)
With brooding mien and sultry eyes,Outside the gates of ParadiseEve sat, and fed the faggot flameThat lit the path whence Adam came.(Strange are the workings of a woman’s mind.)
His giant shade preceded him,Along the pathway green, and dim;She heard his swift approaching tread,But still she sat with drooping head.(Dark are the jungles of unhappy thought.)
He kissed her mouth, and gazed withinHer troubled eyes; for since their sin,His love had grown a thousand fold.But Eve drew back; her face was cold.(Oh, who can read the cipher of a soul.)
‘Now art thou mourning still, sweet wife?’Spake Adam tenderly, ‘the lifeOf our lost Eden? Why, intheeAll Paradise remains for me.’(Deep, deep the currents in a strong man’s heart.)
Thus Eve: ‘Nay, not lost Eden’s blissI mourn; for heavier woe than thisWears on me with one thought accursed.In Adam’s life I am not first.(O woman’s mind! what hells are fashioned there.)
‘The serpent whispered Lilith’s name:(’Twas thus he drove me to my shame)Pluck yonder fruit, he said, and know,How Adam lovedher, long ago.(Fools, fools, who wander searching after pain.)
‘I ate; and like an ancient scroll,I saw that other life unroll;I saw thee, Adam, far from hereWith Lilith on a wondrous sphere.(Bold, bold, the daring of a jealous heart.)
‘Nay, tell me not I dreamed it all;Last night in sleep thou didst let fallHer name in tenderness; I bowedMy stricken head and cried aloud.(Vast, vast the torment of a self-made woe.)
‘And it was then, and not before,That Eden shut and barred its door.Alone in God’s great world I seemed,Whilst thou of thy lost Lilith dreamed.(Oh, who can measure such wide loneliness.)
‘Now every little breeze that sings,Sighs Lilith, like thy whisperings.Oh, where can sorrow hide its face,When Lilith, Lilith, fills all space?’(And Adam in the darkness spake no word.)