The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems of OptimismThis 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 OptimismAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #7421]Most recently updated: July 20, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF OPTIMISM ***
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 OptimismAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #7421]Most recently updated: July 20, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price
Title: Poems of Optimism
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Release date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #7421]Most recently updated: July 20, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF OPTIMISM ***
Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
Decorative graphic
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
34 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
1919
All rights reserved
N.B.—The only volumes of my Poems issued with my approval in the British Empire are published by Messrs. Gay & Hancock.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
Published1913
Reprinted1915, 1918, 1919
PAGE
WAR
Greater Britain
3
Belgium
5
Knitting
6
Mobilisation
8
Neutral
10
A book for the King
11
The men-made gods
12
The Ghosts
14
The poet’s theme
16
Europe
18
After
19
The peace angel
20
Peace should not come
21
MISCELLANEOUS
The Winds of Fate
25
Beauty
26
The invisible helpers
29
To the women of Australia
31
Replies
33
Earth bound
35
A successful man
37
Unsatisfied
39
Separation
42
To the teachers of the young
46
Beauty making
47
On Avon’s breast I saw a stately swan
49
The little go-cart
50
I am running forth to meet you
52
Martyrs of peace
54
Home
56
The eternal now
58
If I were a man, a young man
59
We must send them out to play
62
Protest
65
Reward
67
This is my task
68
The statue
70
Behold the earth
72
What they saw
74
His last letter
77
A dialogue
81
A wish
84
Justice
86
An old song
87
Oh, poor, sick world
90
Praise day
93
Interlude
95
The land of the gone-away-souls
96
The harp’s song
98
The pendulum
99
An old-fashioned type
101
The sword
104
Love and the seasons
105
A naughty little comet
107
The last dance
110
A vagabond mind
112
My flower room
114
My faith
117
Arrow and bow
119
If we should meet him
123
Faith
125
The secret of prayer
127
The answer
129
A vision
131
The second coming
133
Our hearts were not set on fighting,We did not pant for the fray,And whatever wrongs need righting,We would not have met that way.But the way that has opened before usLeads on thro’ a blood-red field;And we swear by the great God o’er us,We will die, but we will not yield.
The battle is not of our making,And war was never our plan;Yet, all that is sweet forsaking,We march to it, man by man.It is either to smite, or be smitten,There’s no other choice to-day;And we live, as befits the Briton,Or we die, as the Briton may.
We were not fashioned for cages,Or to feed from a keeper’s hand;Our strength which has grown thro’ agesIs the strength of a slave-free land.We cannot kneel down to a master,To our God alone can we pray;And we stand in this world disaster,To fight, like a lion at bay.
Ruined? destroyed? Ah, no; though blood in rivers ranDown all her ancient streets; though treasures manifoldLove-wrought, Time-mellowed, and beyond the price of goldAre lost, yet Belgium’s star shines still in God’s vast plan.
Rarely have Kings been great, since kingdoms first began;Rarely have great kings been great men, when all was told.But, by the lighted torch in mailèd hands, behold,Immortal Belgium’s immortal king, and Man.
At the concert and the playEverywhere you see them sitting,Knitting, knitting.Women who the other dayThought of nothing but their frocksOr their jewels or their locks,Women who have lived for pleasure,Who have known no work but leisure,Now are knitting, knitting, knittingFor the soldiers over there.
On the trains and on the shipsWith a diligence befitting,They are knitting.Some with smiles upon their lips,Some with manners debonair,Some with earnest look and air.But each heart in its own fashion,Weaves in pity and compassionIn their knitting, knitting, knittingFor the soldiers over there.
Hurried women to and froFrom their homes to labour flitting,Knitting, knitting,Busy handed come and go.Broken bits of time they spare,Just to feel they do their share,Just to keep life’s sense of beautyIn the doing of a duty,They are knitting, knitting, knittingFor the soldiers over there.
Oh the Kings of earth have mobilised their men.See them moving, valour proving,To the fields of glory going,Banners flowing, bugles blowing,Every one a mother’s son,Brave with uniform and gun,Keeping step with easy swing,Yes, with easy step and light marching onward to the fight,Just to please the warlike fancy of a King;Who has mobilised his army for the strife.
Oh the King of Death has mobilised his men.See the hearses huge and blackHow they rumble down the track;With their coffins filled with dead,Filled with men who fought and bled;Now from fields of glory comingTo the sound of muffled drummingThey are lying still and white,But the Kings have had their fight;Death has mobilised his army for the grave.
That pale word ‘Neutral’ sits becominglyOn lips of weaklings. But the men whose brainsFind fuel in their blood, the men whose mindsHold sympathetic converse with their hearts,Such men are never neutral. That word standsUnsexed and impotent in Realms of Speech.When mighty problems face a startled worldNo virile man is neutral. Right or wrongHis thoughts go forth, assertive, unafraidTo stand by his convictions, and to doTheir part in shaping issues to an end.Silence may guard the door of useless words,At dictate of Discretion; but to standWithout opinions in a world which needsConstructive thinking, is a coward’s part.
A book has been made for the King,A book of beauty and art;To the good king’s eyesA smile shall riseHiding the ache in his heart—Hiding the hurt and the griefAs he turns it, leaf by leaf.
A book has been made for the King,A book of blood and of blight;To the Great King’s eyesA look shall riseThat will blast and wither and smite—Yes, smite with a just God’s rage,As He turns it, page by page.
Said the Kaiser’s god to the god of the Czar:‘Hark, hark, how my people pray.Their faith, methinks, is greater by farThan all the faiths of the others are;They know I will help them slay.’
Said the god of the Czar: ‘My people callIn a medley of tongues; they knowI will lend my strength to them one and all.Wherever they fight their foes shall fallLike grass where the mowers go.’
Then the god of the Gauls spoke out of a cloudTo the god of the King nearby:‘Our people pray, tho’ they pray not loud;They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd,And to laugh, tho’ themselves may die.’
And far out into the heart of SpaceWhere a lonely pathway crept,Up over the stars, to a secret place,Where no light shone but the light of His face,Christ covered His eyes and wept.
There was no wind, and yet the airSeemed suddenly astir;There were no forms, and yet all spaceSeemed thronged with growing hosts.They came from Where, and from Nowhere,Like phantoms as they were;They came from many a land and place—The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.
And some were white, and some were grey,And some were red as blood—Those ghosts of men who met their deathUpon the field of war.Against the skies of fading day,Like banks of cloud they stood;And each wraith asked another wraith,‘What were we fighting for?’
One said, ‘I was my mother’s all;And she was old and blind.’Another, ‘Back on earth, my wifeAnd week-old baby lie.’Another, ‘At the bugle’s call,I left my bride behind;Love made so beautiful my lifeI could not bear to die.’
In voices like the winds that moanAmong pine trees at night,They whispered long, the newly dead,While listening stars came out.‘We wonder if the cause is known,And if the war was right,That killed us in our prime,’ they said,‘And what it was about.’
They came in throngs that filled all space—Those whispering phantom hosts;They came from many a land and place,The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.
Why should the poet of these pregnant timesBe asked to sing of war’s unholy crimes?
To laud and eulogise the trade which thrivesOn horrid holocausts of human lives?
Man was a fighting beast when earth was young,And war the only theme when Homer sung.
’Twixt might and might the equal contest lay:Not so the battles of our modern day.
Too often now the conquering hero struts,A Gulliver among the Lilliputs.
Success no longer rests on skill or fate,But on the movements of a syndicate.
Of old, men fought and deemed it right and just,To-day the warrior fights because he must;
And in his secret soul feels shame becauseHe desecrates the higher manhood’s laws.
Oh, there are worthier themes for poet’s penIn this great hour than bloody deeds of men:
The rights of many—not the worth of one—The coming issues, not the battle done;
The awful opulence and awful need—The rise of brotherhood—the fall of greed;
The soul of man replete with God’s own force,The call ‘to heights,’ and not the cry ‘to horse.’
Are there not better themes in this great ageFor pen of poet, or for voice of sage,
Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumbOnly that greater song in time may come.
When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for,He will not sing of War.
Little lads and grandsires,Women old with care;But all the men are dying menOr dead men over there.
No one stops to dig graves;Who has time to spare?The dead men, the dead menHow the dead men stare.
Kings are out a-hunting—Oh, the sport is rare;With dying men and dead menFalling everywhere.
Life for lads and grandsires;Spoils for kings to share;And dead men, dead men,Dead men everywhere.
Over the din of battle,Over the cannons’ rattle,Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans,I hear the falling of thrones.
Out of the wild disorderThat spreads from border to border,I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;And the Rulers wear no crowns.
Over the blood-charged water,Over the fields of slaughter,Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out thingsI see the passing of Kings.
Angel of Peace, the hounds of war,Unleashed, are all abroad,And war’s foul trade again is madeMan’s leading aim in life.Blood dyes the billow and the sod;The very winds are rifeWith tales of slaughter. Angel, pray,What can we do or think or sayIn times like these?‘Child, think of God!’
‘Before this little speck in spaceCalled Earth with light was shod,Great chains and tiers of splendid spheresWere fashioned by His hand.Be thine the part to love and laud,Nor seek to understand.Go lift thine eyes from death-charged gunsTo one who made a billion suns;And trust and wait.Child, dwell on God!’
Peace should not come along this foul, earth way.Peace should not come, until we cleanse the path.God waited for us; now in awful wrathHe pours the blood of men out day by dayTo purify the highroad for her feet.Why, what would Peace do, in a world where heartsAre filled with thoughts like poison-pointed darts?It were not meet, surely it were not meetFor Peace to come, and with her white robes hideThese industries of death—these guns and swords,—These uniformed, hate-filled, destructive hordes,—These hideous things, that are each nation’s pride.So long as men believe in armèd mightLet arms be brandished. Let not Peace be soughtUntil the race-heart empties out all thoughtOf blows and blood, as arguments for Right.The world has never had enough of war,Else war were not. Now let the monster stand,Until he slays himself with his own hand;Though no man knows what he is fighting for.Then in the place where wicked cannons stoodLet Peace erect her shrine of Brotherhood.
One ship drives east and another drives west,With the self-same winds that blow,’Tis the set of the sailsAnd not the galesThat tell them the way to go.Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate,As we voyage along through life,’Tis the set of the soulThat decides its goalAnd not the calm or the strife.
The search for beauty is the search for GodWho is All Beauty.He who seeks shall find.And all along the paths my feet have trod,I have sought hungrily with heart and mind,And open eyes for beauty,everywhere.Lo!I have found the world is very fair.The search for beauty is the search for God.
Beauty was first revealed to me by stars,Before I saw it in my mother’s eyes,Or, seeing, sensed it beauty, I was stirredTo awe and wonder by those orbs of lightAll palpitant against empurpled skies.They spoke a language to my childish heartOf mystery and splendour, and of space,Friendly with gracious, unseen presences.Beauty was first revealed to me by stars.
Sunsets enlarged the meaning of the word.There was a window looking to the west;Beyond it, wide Wisconsin fields of grain,And then a hill, whereon white flocks of cloudsWould gather in the afternoon to rest.And when the sun went down behind that hillWhat scenes of glory spread before my sight;What beauty—beauty, absolute, supreme!Sunsets enlarged the meaning of that word.
Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet,In summer billowed like a crimson seaAcross the meadow lands. One day, I stoodBreast-high amidst its waves, and heard the humOf myriad bees, that had gone mad like meWith fragrance and with beauty. Over us,A loving sun smiled from a cloudless sky,While a bold breeze kissed lightly as it passed,Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet.
Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful.And in the gallery of Nature hungColossal pictures hard against the sky,Set forests gorgeous with a hundred hues;And with each morning, some new wonder flungBefore the startled world; some daring shade,Some strange, new scheme of colour and of form.Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful.
Winter, though rude, is delicate in art—More delicate than Summer or than fall(Even as rugged man is more refinedIn vital things than woman). Winter’s touchOn Nature seemed most beautiful of all—That evanescent beauty of the frostOn window panes; of clean, fresh, fallen snow;Of white, white sunlight on the ice-draped trees.Winter, though rude, is delicate in art.
Morning! The word itself is beautiful,And the young hours have many gifts to giveThat feed the soul with beauty. He who keepsHis days for labour and his nights for sleepWakes conscious of the joy it is to live,And brings from that mysterious Land of DreamsA sense of beauty that illumines earth.Morning! The word itself is beautiful.
The search for beauty is the search for God.
There are, there areInvisible Great Helpers of the race.Across unatlased continents of space,From star to star.In answer to some soul’s imperious need,They speed, they speed.
When the earth-loving young are forced to standUpon the border of the Unknown Land,They come, they come—those angels who have trodThe altitudes of God,And to the trembling heartTheir strength impart.Have you not seen the delicate young maid,Filled with the joy of life in her fair dawn,Look in the face of death, all unafraid,And smilingly pass on?
This is not human strength; not even faithHas such large confidence in such an hour.It is a powerSupplied by beings who have conquered death.Floating from sphere to sphereThey hover nearThe souls that need the courage they can give.
This is no vision of a dreamer’s mind.Though we are blindThey live, they live,Filling all space—Invisible Great Helpers of the race.
A toast to the splendid daughtersOf the New World over the waters,A world that is great as new;Daughters of brave old races,Daughters of heights and spaces,Broad seas and broad earth places—Hail to your land and you!
The sun and the winds have fed you;The width of your world has led youOut into the larger view;Strong with a strength that is tender,Bright with a primal splendour,Homage and praise we render—Hail to your land and you!
Sisters and daughters and mothers,Standing abreast with your brothers,Working for things that are true;Thinking and doing and daring,Giving, receiving, and sharing,Earning the crowns you are wearing—Hail to your land and you!
You have lived long and learned the secret of life,O Seer!Tell me what are the best three things to seek—The best three things for a man to seek on earth?
The best three things for a man to seek, O Son! are these:Reverence for that great Source from whence he came;Work for the world wherein he finds himself;And knowledge of the Realm toward which he goes.
What are the best three things to love on earth,O Seer!What are the best three things for a man to love?
The best three things for a man to love, O Son! are these:Labour which keeps his forces all in action;A home wherein no evil thing may enter;And a loving woman with God in her heart.
What are the three great sins to shun,O Seer!—What are the three great sins for a man to shun?
The three great sins for a man to shun, O Son! are these:A thought which soils the heart from whence it goes;An action that can harm a living thing;And undeveloped energies of mind.
What are the worst three things to fear,O Seer!—What are the worst three things for a man to fear?
The worst three things for man to fear, O Son! are these:Doubt and suspicion in a young child’s eyes;Accusing shame upon a woman’s face;And in himself no consciousness of God.
New paradise, and groom and bride;The world was all their own;Her heart swelled full of love and pride;Yet were they quite alone?‘Now how is it, oh how is it, and why is it’ (in fearAll silent to herself she spake) ‘that something strange seems here?’
Along the garden paths they walked—The moon was at its height—And lover-wise they strolled and talked,But something was not right.And ‘Who is that, now who is that, oh who is that,’ quoth she,(All silent in her heart she spake) ‘that seems to follow me?’
He drew her closer to his side;She felt his lingering kiss;And yet a shadow seemed to glideBetween her heart and his.And ‘What is that, now what is that, oh what is that,’ she said,(All silent to herself she spake) ‘that minds me of the dead?’
They wandered back by beds of bloom;They climbed a winding stair;They crossed the threshold of their room,But something waited there.‘Now who is this, and what is this, and where is this,’ she cried,(All silent was the cry she made) ‘that comes to haunt and hide?’
Wide-eyed she lay, the while he slept;She could not name her fear.But something from her bedside creptJust as the dawn drew near,(She did not know, she could not know—how could she know?—who cameTo haunt the home of one whose hand had dug her grave of shame).
There was a man who killed a loving maidIn some mad mood of passion; and he paidThe price, upon a scaffold. Now his nameStands only as a synonym for shame.There was another man, who took to wifeA loving woman. She was full of life,Of hope, and aspirations; and her prideClothed her like some rich mantle.
First, the wideGlad stream of life that through her veins had swayHe dammed by rocks, cast in it, day by day.Her flag of hope, flung gaily to the world,He placed half mast, and then hauled down, and furled.The aspirations, breathing in each word,By subtle ridicule, were made absurd:
The delicate fine mantle of her pride,With rude unfeeling hands, was wrenched aside:And by mean avarice, or vulgar show,Her quivering woman’s heart was made to knowThat she was but a chattel, bought to fillWhatever niche might please the buyer’s will.
So she was murdered, while the slow years went.And her assassin, honoured, opulent,Lived with no punishment, or social ban!‘A good provider, a successful man.’
The bird flies home to its young;The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud;And in my neighbour’s house there is the cry of a child.I close my window that I need not hear.
She is mine, and she is very beautiful:And in her heart there is no evil thought.There is even love in her heart—Love of life, love of joy, love of this fair world,And love of me (or love of my love for her);Yet she will never consent to bear me a child.And when I speak of it she weeps,Always she weeps, saying:‘Do I not bring joy enough into your life?Are you not satisfied with me and my love,As I am satisfied with you?Never would I urge you to some great perilTo please my whim; yet ever so you urge me,Urge me to risk my happiness—yea, life itself—So lightly do you hold me.’ And then she weeps,Always she weeps, until I kiss away her tearsAnd soothe her with sweet lies, saying I am content.Then she goes singing through the house like some bright birdPreening her wings, making herself all beautiful,Perching upon my knee, and pecking at my lipsWith little kisses. So again love’s shipGoes sailing forth upon a portless sea,From nowhere unto nowhere; and it takesOr brings no cargoes to enrich the world.
The yearsAre passing by us. We will yet be oldWho now are young. And all the man in meCries for the reproduction of myselfThrough her I love. Why, love and youth like oursCould populate with gods and goddessesThis great, green earth, and give the race new typesWere it made fruitful! Often I can see,As in a vision, desolate old ageAnd loneliness descending on us two,And nowhere in the world, nowhere beyond the earth,Fruit of my loins and of her womb to feedOur hungry hearts. To me it seemsMore sorrowful than sitting by small gravesAnd wetting sad-eyed pansies with our tears.
The bird flies home to its young;The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud;And in my neighbour’s house there is the cry of a child.I close my window that I need not hear.
One decade and a half since first we cameWith hearts aflameInto Love’s Paradise, as man and mate;And now we separate.Soon, all too soon,Waned the white splendour of our honeymoon.We saw it fading; but we did not knowHow bleak the path would be when once its glowWas wholly gone.And yet we two were forced to follow on—Leagues, leagues apart while ever side by side.Darker and darker grew the loveless weather,Darker the way,Until we could not stayLonger together.Now that all anger from our hearts has died,And love has flown far from its ruined nest,To find sweet shelter in another breast,Let us talk calmly of our past mistakes,And of our faults; if only for the sakesOf those with whom our futures will be cast.You shall speak first.
A woman would speak last—Tell me my first grave error as a wife.
Inertia. My young veins were rifeWith manhood’s ardent blood; and love was fireWithin me. But you met my strong desireWith lips like frozen rose leaves—chaste, so chasteThat all your splendid beauty seemed but wasteOf love’s materials. Then of that beautyWhich had so pleased my sightYou seemed to take no care; you felt no dutyTo keep yourself an object of delightFor lover’s-eyes; and appetiteAnd indolence soon wroughtTheir devastating changes. You were notThe woman I had sworn to love and cherish.If love is starved, what can love do but perish?Now will you speak of my first fatal sinAnd all that followed, even as I have done?
I must beginWith the young quarter of our honeymoon.You are but oneOf countless men who take the priceless boonOf woman’s love and kill it at the start,Not wantonly but blindly. Woman’s passionIs such a subtle thing—woof of her heart,Web of her spirit; and the body’s partIs to play ever but the lesser rôleTo her white soul.Seized in brute fashion,It fades like down on wings of butterflies;Then dies.So my love died.Next, on base Mammon’s cross you nailed my pride,Making me ask for what was mine by right:Until, in my own sight,I seemed a helpless slaveTo whom the master gaveA grudging dole. Oh, yes, at times gifts showeredUpon your chattel; but I was not doweredBy generous love. Hate never framed a curseOr placed a cruel banThat so crushed woman, as the law of manThat makes her pensioner upon his purse.That necessary stuff called gold is suchA cold, rude thing it needs the nicest touchOf thought and speech when it approaches love,Or it will prove the certain death thereof.
Your words cut deep; ’tis time we separate.
Well, each goes wiser to a newer mate.
How large thy task, O teacher of the young,To take the ravelled threads by parents flungWith careless hands, and through consummate careTo weave a fabric, fine and firm and fair.God’s uncompleted work is thine to do—Be brave and true!
Methinks there is no greater work in lifeThan making beauty. Can the mind conceiveOne little corner in celestial realmsUnbeautiful, or dull or commonplace?Or picture ugly angels, illy clad?Beauty and splendour, opulence and joy,Are attributes of God and His domain,And so are worth and virtue. But why preachOf virtue only to the sons of men,Ignoring beauty, till they think it sin?Why, if each dweller on this little globeCould know the sacred meaning of that wordAnd understand its deep significance,Men’s thoughts would form in beauty, till their dreamsOf heaven would find expression in their lives,However humble; they themselves would growGodlike, befitting such a fair estate.Let us be done with what is only good,Demanding here and now the beautiful;Lest, with the mind and eye on earth untrained,We shall be ill at ease when heaven is gained.
One day when England’s June was at its best,I saw a stately and imperious swanFloating on Avon’s fair untroubled breast.Sudden, it seemed as if all strife had goneOut of the world; all discord, all unrest.
The sorrows and the sinnings of the raceFaded away like nightmares in the dawn.All heaven was one blue background for the graceOf Avon’s beautiful, slow-moving swan;And earth held nothing mean or commonplace.
Life seemed no longer to be hurrying onWith unbecoming haste; but softly trod,As one who reads in emerald leaf, or lawn,Or crimson rose a message straight from God.. . . . .On Avon’s breast I saw a stately swan.
It was long, long ago that a soul like a flowerUnfolded, and blossomed, and passed in an hour.It was long, long ago; and the memory seemsLike the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.
The kind years have crowned me with many a joySince the going away of my wee little boy;Each one as it passed me has stooped with a kiss,And left some delight—knowing one thing I miss.
But when in the park or the street, all elateA baby I see in his carriage of state,As proud as a king, in his little go-cart—I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!
And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May;And the baby, who came but to hurry awayIn the little white hearse, is not dead, but alive,And out in his little go-cart for a drive.
I whisper a prayer as he rides down the street,And my thoughts follow after him, tender and sweet;For I know, by a law that is vast and divine,(Though I know not his name) that the baby is mine!
I am running forth to meet you, O my Master,For they tell me you are surely on the way;Yes, they tell me you are coming back again(While I run, while I run).And I wish my feet were winged to speed on faster,And I wish I might behold you here to-day,Lord of men.
I am running, yet I walk beside my neighbour,And I take the duties given me to do;Yes, I take the daily duties as they fall(While I run, while I run),And my heart runs to my hand and helps the labour,For I think this is the way that leads to you,Lord of all.
I am running, yet I turn from toil and duty,Oftentimes to just the art of being glad;Yes, to just the joys that make the earth-world bright(While I run, while I run).For the soul that worships God must worship beauty,And the heart that thinks of You can not be sad,Lord of light.
I am running, yet I pause to greet my brother,And I lean to rid my garden of its weed;Yes, I lean, although I lift my thoughts above(While I run, while I run).And I think of that command, ‘Love one another,’As I hear discordant sounds of creed with creed,Lord of Love.
I am running, and the road is lit with splendour,And it brightens and shines fairer with each span;Yes, it brightens like the highway in a dream(While I run, while I run).And my heart to all the world grows very tender,For I seem to see the Christ in every man,Lord supreme.
Fame writes ever its song and story,For heroes of war, in letters of glory.
But where is the story and where is the songFor the heroes of peace and the martyrs of wrong?
They fight their battles in shop and mine;They die at their posts and make no sign.
They herd like beasts in a slaughter pen;They live like cattle and suffer like men.
Why, set by the horrors of such a life,Like a merry-go-round seems the battle’s strife,
And the open sea, and the open boat,And the deadly cannon with bellowing throat.
Oh, what are they all, with death thrown in,To the life that has nothing to lose or win—
The life that has nothing to hope or gainBut ill-paid labour and beds of pain?
Fame, where is your story and where is your songFor the martyrs of peace and the victims of wrong?
The greatest words are always solitaires,Set singly in one syllable; like birth,Life, love, hope, peace. I sing the worthOf that dear word toward which the whole world fares—I sing of home.
To make a home, we should take all of loveAnd much of labour, patience, and keen joy;Then mix the elements of earth’s alloyWith finer things drawn from the realms above,The spirit home.
There should be music, melody and song;Beauty in every spot; an open doorAnd generous sharing of the pleasure storeWith fellow-pilgrims as they pass along,Seeking for home.
Make ample room for silent friends—the books,That give so much and only ask for space.Nor let Utility crowd out the vaseWhich has no use save gracing by its looksThe precious home.
To narrow bounds let mirrors lend their aidAnd multiply each gracious touch of art;And let the casual stranger feel the part—The great creative part—that love has playedWithin the home.
Here bring your best in thought and word and deed,Your sweetest acts, your highest self-control;Nor save them for some later hour and goal.Here is the place, and now the time of need,Here in your home.
Time with his back against the mighty wall,Which hides from view all future joy and sorrow,Hears, without answer, the impatient callOf puny man, to tell him of to-morrow.
Moral, be wise, and to the silence bow,These useless and unquiet ways forsaking;Concern thyself with the Eternal Now—To-day hold all things, ready for thy taking.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,I would look in the eyes of Life undauntedBy any Fate that might threaten me.I would give to the world what the world most wanted—Manhood that knows it can do and be;Courage that dares, and faith that can seeClear into the depths of the human soul,And find God there, and the ultimate goal,If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,I would think of myself as the masterful creatureOf all the Masterful plan;The Formless Cause, with form and feature;The Power that heeds not limit or ban;Man, wonderful man.I would do good deeds, and forget them straightway;I would weave my woes into ropes and climbUp to the heights of the helper’s gateway;And Life should serve me, and Time,And I would sail out, and out, and findThe treasures that lie in the deep sea, Mind.I would dream, and think, and act;I would work, and love, and pray,Till each dream and vision grew into a fact,If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,I would guard my passions as Kings guard treasures,And keep them high and clean.(For the will of a man, with his passions, measures;It is strong as they are keen.)I would think of each woman as some one’s mother;I would think of each man as my own blood brother,And speed him along on his way.And the glory of life in this wonderful hourShould fill me and thrill me with Conscious power,If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
Now much there is need of doing must not be done in haste;But slowly and with patience, as a jungle is changed to a town.But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not always so:When a murderer’s hand is lifted to kill, there is no time to waste;And the way to change his purpose is first to knock him downAnd teach him the law of kindness after you give him the blow.
The acorn you plant in the morning will not give shade at noon;And the thornless cactus must be bred by year on year of toil.But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not ever the way,For the roots of the poison ivy plant you cannot pull too soon;If you would better your garden and make the most of your soil,Hurry and dig up the evil things and cast them out to-day.
The ancient sin of the nations no law can ever efface;We must wait for the mothers of men to grow, and give clean souls to their sons.But listen, my brothers, listen—when a child cries out in pain,We must rise from the banquet board and go, though the host is saying grace;We must rise and find the Herod of Greed, who is killing our little ones,Nor ever go back to the banquet until the monster is slain.
The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes,As a sturdy oak will face the storm, and does not break or bow.But listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a day;If a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise?We are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the children NOW;We must rescue the little slaves of Greed and send them out to play.
To sit in silence when we should protestMakes cowards out of men. The human raceHas climbed on protest. Had no voice been raisedAgainst injustice, ignorance and lustThe Inquisition yet would serve the lawAnd guillotines decide our least disputes.The few who dare must speak and speak againTo right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,No vested power in this great day and landCan gag or throttle; Press and voice may cryLoud disapproval of existing ills,May criticise oppression and condemnThe lawlessness of wealth-protecting lawsThat let the children and child-bearers toilTo purchase ease for idle millionaires,Therefore do I protest against the boastOf independence in this mighty land.Call no chain strong which holds one rusted link,Call no land free that holds one fettered slaveUntil the manacled, slim wrists of babesAre loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,Until the Mother bears no burden saveThe precious one beneath her heart; untilGod’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greedAnd given back to labour, let no manCall this the Land of Freedom.
Fate used me meanly; but I looked at her and laughed,That none might know how bitter was the cup I quaffed.Along came Joy, and paused beside me where I sat,Saying, ‘I came to see what you were laughing at.’
When the whole world resounds with rude alarmsOf warring arms,When God’s good earth, from border unto borderShows man’s disorder,Let me not waste my dower of mortal mightIn grieving over wrongs I cannot right.This is my task: amid discordant strifeTo keep a clean sweet centre in my life;And though the human orchestra may bePlaying all out of key—To tune my soul to symphonies above,And sound the note of love.This is my task.
When by the minds of men most beauteous FaithSeems doomed to death,And to her place is hoisted, by soul treason,The dullard Reason,Let me not hurry forth with flag unfurledTo proselyte an unbelieving world.This is my task: in depths of unstarred nightOr in diverting and distracting lightTo keep (in crowds, or in my room alone)Faith on her lofty throne;And whatsoever happen or befall,To see God’s hand in all.This is my task.
When, in church pews, men worship God in words,But meet their kind with swords,When Fair Religion, stripped of holy passion,Walks masked as Fashion,Let me not wax indignant at the sight;Or waste my strength bewailing her sad plight.This is my task: to search in my own mindUntil the qualities of God I find;To seek them in the hearts of friend and foe—Or high or low;And in my hours of toil, or prayer, or play,To live my creed each day.This is my task.