The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems of lifeThis 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 lifeAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: December 23, 2024 [eBook #74967]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: EDINBURGH: W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL, 1910Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF LIFE ***
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 lifeAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: December 23, 2024 [eBook #74967]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: EDINBURGH: W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL, 1910Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne
Title: Poems of life
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Release date: December 23, 2024 [eBook #74967]
Language: English
Original publication: EDINBURGH: W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL, 1910
Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF LIFE ***
of
BY
EDINBURGH.W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
LIFE
A SONG OF LIFE
CONVERSION
LIFE AND I
LIMITLESS
TWO SUNSETS
UNREST
ARTIST'S LIFE
NOTHING BUT STONES
SECRETS
USELESSNESS
WILL
WINTER RAIN
INEVITABLE
THE OCEAN OF SONG
GETHSEMANE
DUST-SEALED
ADVICE
OVER THE BANISTERS
MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER
THE FAREWELL
THE PAST
"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"
THE SONNET
NOTHING NEW
HELENA
NOTHING REMAINS
FINIS
APPLAUSE
LIFE
THE STORY
LET THEM GO
THE ENGINE
IN THE LONG RUN
A SONG
THE TWO GLASSES
WHAT WE NEED
IS IT DONE?
BURDENED
TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY?
A MARCH SNOW
COMRADES
IN THE CROWD
INTO SPACE
SNOWED UNDER
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
THE YEAR
THROUGH DIM EYES
TRUE CULTURE
WHAT GAIN?
THE CHRISTIAN'S NEW YEAR PRAYER
AND THEY ARE DUMB
I feel the great immensity of life.All little aims slip from me, and I reachMy yearning soul toward the Infinite.
As when a mighty forest, whose green leavesHave shut it in, and made it seem a bowerFor lovers' secrets, or for children's sports,Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,And lets the eye behold it, limitless,And full of winding mysteries of ways:So now with life that reaches out before,And borders on the unexplained Beyond.
I see the stars above me, world on world:I hear the awful language of all Space;I feel the distant surging of great seas,That hide the secrets of the UniverseIn their eternal bosoms; and I knowThat I am but an atom of the Whole.
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.
When this world's pleasures for my soul sufficed,Ere my heart's plummet sounded depths of pain,I called on Reason to control my brain,And scoffed at that old story of the Christ.
But when o'er burning wastes my feet had trod,And all my life was desolate with loss,With bleeding hands I clung about the cross,And cried aloud, "Man needs a suffering God!"
Life and I are lovers, strayingArm in arm along:Often like two children Maying,Full of mirth and song,
Life plucks all the blooming hoursGrowing by the way;Binds them on my brow like flowers,Calls me Queen of May.
Then again, in rainy weather,We sit vis-a-vis,Planning work we'll do togetherIn the years to be.
Sometimes Life denies me blisses,And I frown or pout;But we make it up with kissesEre the day is out.
Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him,Try his trust and faith,Saying I shall one day leave himFor his rival, Death.
Then he always grows more zealous,Tender, and more true;Loves the more for being jealous,As all lovers do.
Though I swear by stars above him,And by worlds beyond,That I love him--love him--love him;Though my heart is fond;
Though he gives me, doth my lover,Kisses with each breath--I shall one day throw him over,And plight troth with Death.
There is nothing, I hold, in the way of workThat a human being may not achieveIf he does not falter, or shrink or shirk,And more than all, if he will _believe_.
Believe in himself and the power behindThat stands like an aid on a dual ground,With hope for the spirit and oil for the wound,Ready to strengthen the arm or mind.
When the motive is right and the will is strongThere are no limits to human power;For that great force back of us moves alongAnd takes us with it, in trial's hour.
And whatever the height you yearn to climb,Tho' it never was trod by the foot of man,And no matter how steep--I say you _can_,If you will be patient-and use your time.
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.
Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone;Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death,We one by one, with our expiring breath,Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,Despite her careful hiding; and the airYields its mysterious marvels in despairTo swell the mighty store-house of things known.In vain the sea expostulates and raves;It cannot cover from the keen world's sightThe curious wonders of its coral caves.And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,The prying fingers of detective yearsShall drag THY secret out into the light.
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 last nightI 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.
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.
In golden youth when seems the earthA Summer-land of singing mirth,When souls are glad and hearts are light,And not a shadow lurks in sight,We do not know it, but there lieuSomewhere veiled under evening skiesA garden which we all must see--The garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways,Love lends a halo to our days;Light sorrows sail like clouds afar,We laugh, and say how strong we are.We hurry on; and hurrying, goClose to the borderland of woeThat waits for you, and waits for me--Forever waits Gethsemane.
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams,Bridged over by our broken dreams;Behind the misty caps of years,Beyond the great salt fount of tears,The garden lies. Strive as you may,You cannot miss it in your way;All paths that have been, or shall be,Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.
All those who journey, soon or late,Must pass within the garden's gate;Must kneel alone in darkness there,And battle with some fierce despair.God pity those who cannot say,"Not mine but Thine"; who only pray"Let this cup pass," and cannot seeThe PURPOSE in Gethsemane.
I know not wherefore, but mine eyesSee bloom, where other eyes see blight.They find a rainbow, a sunrise,Where others but discern deep night.
Men call me an enthusiast,And say I look through gilded haze:Because where'er my gaze is cast,I see something that calls for praise.
I say, "Behold those lovely eyes--That tinted cheek of flower-like grace."They answer in amused surprise:"We thought it a common face."
I say, "Was ever seen more fair?I seem to walk in Eden's bowers."They answer, with a pitying air,"The weeds are choking out the flowers."
I know not wherefore, but God lentA deeper vision to my sight.On whatsoe'er my gaze is bentI catch the beauty Infinite;
That underlying, hidden halfThat all things hold of Deity.So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh--Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.
I must do as you do? Your way I ownIs a very good way. And still,There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,One over, one under the hill.
You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,That the prudent choose each time;And you think me reckless and rash to-day,Because I prefer to climb.
Your path is the right one, and so is mine.We are not like peas in a pod,Compelled to lie in a certain line,Or else be scattered abroad.
'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend,If we all went just one way;Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,Though they lead apart to-day.
You like the shade, and I like the sun;You like an even pace,I like to mix with the crowd and run,And then rest after the race.
I like danger, and storm and strife,You like a peaceful time;I like the passion and surge of life,You like its gentle rhyme.
You like buttercups, dewy sweet,And crocuses, framed in snow;I like roses, born of the heat,And the red carnation's glow.
I must live my life, not yours, my friend,For so it was written down;We must follow our given paths to the end,But I trust we shall meet--in town.
Over the banisters bends a face,Daringly sweet and beguiling.Somebody stands in careless graceAnd watching the picture, smiling.
The light burns dim in the hall below,Nobody sees her standing,Saying good-night again, soft and low,Halfway up to the landing.
Nobody only the eyes of brown,Tender and full of meaning,That smile on the fairest face in town,Over the banisters leaning.
Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,I wonder why she lingers;Now, when the good-nights all are said,Why, somebody holds her fingers.
He holds her fingers and draws her down,Suddenly growing bolder,Till the loose hair drops its masses brownLike a mantle over his shoulder.
Over the banisters soft hands, fair,Brush his cheeks like a feather,And bright brown tresses and dusky hairMeet and mingle together.
There's a question asked, there's a swift caress,She has flown like a bird from the hallway,But over the banisters drops a "Yes,"That shall brighten the world for him alway.
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.
'Tis not the untried soldier new to dangerWho fears to enter into active strife.Amidst the roll of drums, the cannon's rattle,He craves adventure, and thinks not of life.
But the scarred veteran knows the price of glory,He does not court the conflict or the fray.He has no longing to rehearse that goryAnd most dramatic act, of war's dark play.
He who to love has always been a strangerAll unafraid may linger in your spell.My heart has known the warfare, and its danger.It craves no repetition--so farewell.
I 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 upon 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.
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, who IS.
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.
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.A chef d'œuvre toiled 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.
FROM the dawn of spring till the year grows hoary,Nothing is new that is done or said,The leaves are telling the same old story--"Budding, bursting, dying, dead."And ever and always the wild birds' chorusIs "coming, building, flying, fled."
Never the round Earth roams or rangesOut of her circuit, so old, so old,And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes--Beaming, burning, tender, cold,As spring-time softens or winter estrangesThe mighty heart of this orb of gold.
From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breakingThere were tempest, sunshine, fruit, and frost.And the sea was calm or the sea was shakingHis mighty mane like a lion crossed,And ever this cry the heart was making--Longing, loving, losing, lost.
For ever the wild wind wanders, crying,Southerly, easterly, north and west,And one worn song the fields are sighing,"Sowing, growing, harvest, rest,"And the tired thought of the world, replyingLike an echo to what is last and best,Murmurs--"Rest."
Last night I saw Helena. She whose praiseOf late all men have sounded. She for whomYoung Angus rashly sought a silent tombRather than live without her all his days.
Wise men go mad who look upon her long,She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhileI find no fascination in her smile,Although I make her theme of this poor song.
"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair,And yet to me each shining silken tressSeems robbed of beauty and all lustreless--Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.
(I know a little maiden so demureShe will not let her one true lover's handsIn playful fondness touch her soft brown bandsSo dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)
"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be,And yet they are not beautiful to me.Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.
(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hidSo underneath white curtains, and so veiledThat I have sometimes plead for hours, and failedTo see more than the shyly lifted lid.)
"Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?""Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?"I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.
(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet,And though I plead in passion at her feet,She would not let me brush it if I died.)
In vain, Helena! though wise men may vieFor thy rare smile, or die from loss of it,Armoured by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.
Nothing remains of unrecorded agesThat lie in the silent cemetery time;Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages,Their glory may have been indeed sublime.How weak do seem our strivings after power,How poor the grandest efforts of our brains,If out of all we are, in one short hourNothing remains.
Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces,Time and decay uproot the forest trees.Even the mighty mountains leave their places,And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seasThe great earth writhes in some convulsive spasmsAnd turns the proudest cities into plains.The level sea becomes a yawning chasm--Nothing remains.
Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces,The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry,Rivers are drained and altered in their courses,Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky.Ideas die and old religions perish,Our rarest pleasures and our keenest painsAre swept away with all we hate or cherish--Nothing remains.
Nothing remains but the Eternal NamelessAnd all-creative spirit of the Law,Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless,Invincible, resistless, with no flaw;So full of love it must create for ever,Destroying that it may create again,Persistent and perfecting in endeavour,It yet must bring forth angels, after men--This, this remains!
An idle rhyme of the summer time,Sweet, and solemn, and tender;Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays,Bright with the sunset's splendor.
Summer and beauty over the lands--Careless hours of pleasure;A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands--A change in the floating measure.
A deeper hue in the skies of blue,Winds from the tropics blowing;A softer grace on the fair moon's face,And the summer going, going.
The leaves drift down, the green grows brown,And tears with smiles are blended;A twilight hour and a treasured flower,--And now the poem is ended.
I hold it one of the sad certain lawsWhich makes our failures sometime seem more kindThan that success which brings sure loss behind--True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applauseFame blights the object it would bless, becauseWeighed down with men's expectancy, the mindCan no more soar to those far heights, and findThat freedom which its inspiration was.When once we listen to its noisy cheersOr hear the populace' approval, thenWe catch no more the music of the spheres,Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men.Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears,The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.
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.
They met each other in the glade--She lifted up her eyes;Alack the day! Alack the maid!She blushed in swift surprise.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.
The pail was full, the path was steep--He reached to her his hand;She felt her warm young pulses leap,But did not understand.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.
She sat beside him in the wood--He wooed with words and sighs;Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good,And maidens are not wise.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.
The summer sun shone fairly down,The wind blew from the south;As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,His kiss fell on her mouth.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.
And now the autumn time is near,The lover roves away,With breaking heart and falling tear,She sits the livelong day.Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.
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!
INTO the gloom of the deep, dark night,With panting breath and a startled scream;Swift as a bird in sudden flight,Darts this creature of steel and steam.
Awful dangers are lurking nigh,Rocks and chasms are near the track,But straight by the light of its great white eye,It speeds through the shadows, dense and black.
Terrible thoughts and fierce desiresTrouble its mad heart many an hour,Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires,Coupled ever with might and power.
It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein,The narrow track by vale and hill:And shrieks with a cry of startled pain;And longs to follow its own wild will.
O, what am I but an engine, shodWith muscle and flesh, by the hand of God,Speeding on through the dense, dark night,Guided alone by the soul's white light.
Often and often my mad heart tires,And hates its way with a bitter hate,And longs to follow its own desires,And leave the end in the hands of fate.
O mighty engine of steel and steam;O human engine of blood and bone,Follow the white light's certain beam--There lies safety, and there alone.
The narrow track of fearless truth,Lit by the soul's great eye of light,O passionate heart of restless youth,Alone will carry you through the night.
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.
IS anyone sad in the world, I wonder?Does anyone weep on a day like thisWith the sun above, and the green earth under?Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?
With the sun, and the skies, and the bird, above me,Birds that sing as they wheel and fly--With the winds to follow and say they love me--Who could be lonely? O no, not I!
Somebody said, in the street this morning,As I opened my window to let in the light,That the darkest day of the world was dawning;But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight.
One who claims that he knows about itTells me the Earth is a vale of sin;But I and the bees and the birds--we doubt it,And think it a world worth living in.
Some one says that hearts are fickle,That love is sorrow, that life is care,And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,Gathers whatever is bright and fair.
I told the thrush, and we laughed together,Laughed till the woods were all a-ring;And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,"Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."
Up he flew, but his song, remaining,Rang like a bell in my heart all day,And silenced the voices of weak complaining,That pipe like insects along the way.
O world of light, and O world of beauty!Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?Yes, life is love, and love is duty;And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine!
There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,On a rich man's table, rim to rim.One was ruddy, and red as blood,And one was as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,Where I was king, for I ruled in might.And the proudest and grandest souls on earthFell under my touch, as though struck with blight.From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown,From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down;I have blasted many an honored name,I have taken virtue, and given shame;I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste,That has made his future a barren waste.Far greater than any king am I,Or than any army beneath the sky.I have made the arm of the driver fail,And sent the train from its iron rail.I have made good ships go down at sea,And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;For they said, 'Behold, how great you be!Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall,And your might and power are over all.'""Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine,"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water glass, "I cannot boastOf a king dethroned or a murdered host;But I can tell of hearts that were sad,By my crystal drops made light and glad.Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved;Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved.I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain;Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky,And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill,That ground out the flour, and turned at my will;I can tell of manhood, debased by you,That I have uplifted, and crowned anew.I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,I gladden the heart of man and maid;I set the chained wine-captive free,And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other,The glass of wine, and its paler brother,As they sat together, filled to the brim,On the rich man's table, rim to rim.
What does our country need? No armies standingWith sabres gleaming ready for the fight;Not increased navies, skilful and commanding,To bound the waters with an iron might;Not haughty men with glutted purses tryingTo purchase souls, and keep the power of place;Not jewelled dolls with one another vyingFor palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,With that rare meekness, born of gentleness;Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,The women whom all little children bless;Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,With finest scorn for all things low and mean;Women who hold the names of wife and motherFar nobler than the title of a queen.
Oh! these are they who mould the men of story,These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,Who, worn and weary, ask no greater gloryThan making some young soul the home of truth;Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowingThe seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growingAnd weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;
Women who do not hold the gift of beautyAs some rare treasure to be bought and sold.But guard it as a precious aid to duty--The outer framing of the inner gold;Women who, low above their cradles bending,Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed,While their pure prayers like incense are ascendingTHESE are our country's pride, our country's need,
It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes,The last line has withered and curled.In a tiny white heap of dead ashesLie buried the hopes of your world.There were mad foolish vows in each letter,It is well they have shrivelled and burned,And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter,It was better removed and returned.
But ah, is it done? In the embersWhere letters and tokens were cast,Have you burned up the heart that remembers,And treasures its beautiful past?Do you think in this swift reckless fashionTo ruthlessly burn and destroyThe months that were freighted with passion,The dreams that were drunken with joy?
Can you burn up the rapture of kissesThat flashed from the lips to the soul,Or the heart that grows sick for lost blissesIn spite of its strength of control?Have you burned up the touch of warm fingersThat thrilled through each pulse and each vein,Or the sound of a voice that still lingersAnd hurts with a haunting refrain?
Is it done? is the life drama ended?You have put all the lights out, and yet,Though the curtain, rung down, has descended,Can the actors go home and forget?Ah, no! they will turn in their sleepingWith a strange restless pain in their hearts,And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping,Will dream they are playing their parts.
"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.