The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems of reflectionThis 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 reflectionAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: December 11, 2024 [eBook #74873]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Chicago: M.A, Donohue & Company, 1905Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF REFLECTION ***
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 reflectionAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: December 11, 2024 [eBook #74873]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Chicago: M.A, Donohue & Company, 1905Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne
Title: Poems of reflection
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Release date: December 11, 2024 [eBook #74873]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago: M.A, Donohue & Company, 1905
Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF REFLECTION ***
of
BY
CHICAGOM. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY427-429 Dearborn Street
Copyright 1905.M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
Bohemia
Penalty
Life
Lines from "Maurine"
When
Only Dreams
In the Night
Contentment
A New Year's Greeting to the City of the Lakes
Mother's Loss
The Women
Lean Down and Lift Me Higher
A Tribute to Vinnie Ream
The Little Bird
"Vampires"
Dying
The King and the Siren
Sunshine and Shadow
Whatever Is--Is Best
Transplanted
Worldly Wisdom
New Orleans, 1885
The Room Beneath the Rafters
My Comrade
At An Old Drawer
So Long in Coming
Lay It Away
Perished
The Belle's Soliloquy
My Vision
Dream-Time
Sing to Me
Summer Song
A Twilight Thought
The Belle of the Season
Joy
Bird of Hope
A Golden Day
Fading
All the World
Lines
A Fragment
The Change
Old
The Musicians
The Doomed City's Prayer
Daft
Hung
When I Am Dead
In Memory of Miss Jenny Blanchard
In Memory of J. B.
Bird of Hope
Ghosts
Out of the Depths
Mistakes
Presumption
Twilight Thoughts
Listen!
Song of the Spirit
The Pilgrim Fathers
Lines Written upon the Death of James Buell
Searching
Fading
A Dream
Idler's Song
For Him Who Shall Best Understand It
Dying
Thanksgiving
Our Angel
Until the Night
A Tribute
In Memory of Charlie Spaulding
Bohemia, o'er thy unatlassed bordersHow many cross, with half-reluctant feet,And unformed fears of dangers and disorders,To find delights, more wholesome and more sweetThan ever yet were known to the "elite."
Herein can dwell no pretense and no seeming;No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere,Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming.The shores of the ideal world, from here,Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.
We have no use for formal codes of fashion;No "Etiquette of Courts" we emulate;We know it needs sincerity and passionTo carry out the plans of God, or fate;We do not strive to seem inanimate.
We call no time lost that we give to pleasure;Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great sea;We cast out no vain plummet-line to measureImagined depths of that unknown To Be,But grasp the Now, and fill it full of glee.
All creeds have room here, and we all togetherDevoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine;But he who dwells once in thy golden weather,Bohemia--sweet, lovely land of mine--Can find no joy outside thy border-line.
Because of the fullness of what I hadAll that I have seems void and vain.If I had not been happy I were not sad;Though my salt is savorless, why complain?
From the ripe perfection of what was mine,All that is mine seems worse than naught;Yet I know as I sit in the dark and pine,No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.
From the throb and thrill of a day that was,The day that now is seems dull with gloom;Yet I bear its dullness and darkness because'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.
From the royal feast which of old was spreadI am starved on the diet which now is mine;Yet I could not turn hungry from water and bread,If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.
An infant wailing in nameless fear;A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,Or the hum of an insect flying near.Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom.
A little child on the sun-checked floor,A broken toy, and a tear-stained face,A young life clouded, a young heart sore;And the great clock, time, ticks on apace.
A maiden weeping in bitter pain.Two white hands clasped on an aching brow.A blighted faith and a fond hope slain,A shattered trust and a broken vow.
A matron holding a baby's shoe.The hot tears gather, and fall at willOn the knotted ribbon of white and blue,For the foot that wore it is cold and still.
An aged woman upon her bed,Worn, and wearied, and poor and old,Longing to rest with the happy dead.And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee?Where is the moment that holds no pain?Life has its crosses from infancyDown to the grave; and its hopes are vain.
I'd rather have my verses winA place in common peoples' hearts,Who, toiling through the strife and dinOf life's great thoroughfares, and marts,
May read some line my hand has penned;Some simple verse, not fine, or grand,But what their hearts can understandAnd hold me henceforth as a friend,--
I'd rather win such quiet fameThan by some fine thought, polished soBut those of learned minds would know,Just what the meaning of my song,--To have the critics sound my nameIn high-flown praises, loud and long.
I sing not for the critic's ear,But for the masses. If they hear,Despite the turmoil, noise and strifeSome least low note that gladdens life,I shall be wholly satisfied,Though critics to the end deride.
I dwell in the western inland,Afar from the sounding sea,But I seem to hear it sobbingAnd calling aloud to me,And my heart cries out for the oceanAs a child for its mother's breast,And I long to lie on its watersAnd be lulled in its arms to rest.
I can close my eyes and fancyThat I hear its mighty roar,And I see its blue waves splashingAnd plunging against the shore;And the white foam caps the billow,And the sea-gulls wheel and cry,And the cool wild wind is blowingAnd the ships go sailing by.
Oh, wonderful, mighty ocean!When shall I ever stand,Where my heart has gone already,There on thy gleaming strand I
When shall I ever wanderAway from this inland west,And stand by thy side, dear ocean,And rock on thy heaving breast?
A maiden sat in the sunset glowOf the shadowy, beautiful Long Ago,That we see through a mist of tears.She sat and dreamed, with lips apart,With thoughtful eyes and a beating heart,Of the mystical future years;And brighter far than the sunset skiesWas the vision seen by the maiden's eyes.
There were castles built of the summer air,And beautiful voices were singing there,In a soft and floating strain.There were skies of azure and fields or green,With never a cloud to come between,And never a thought of pain;There was music, sweet as the silvery notesThat flow from a score of thrushes' throats.
There were hands to clasp with a loving hold;There were lips to kiss, and eyes that toldMore than the lips could say.And all of the faces she loved were there,With their snowy brows untouched by care,And locks that were never gray.And Love was the melody each heart beat,And the beautiful vision was all complete.
But the castles built of the summer windI have vainly sought. I only findShadows, all grim and cold;--For I was the maiden who thought to seeInto the future years,-Ah, me!And I am gray and old.My dream of earth was as fair and brightAs my hope of heaven is to-night.
Dreams are but dreams at the very best,And the friends I loved lay down to restWith their faces hid away.They had furrowed brows and snowy hair,And they willingly laid their burdens whereMine shall be laid one day.A shadow came over my vision sceneAs the clouds of sorrow came in between.
The hands that I thought to clasp are crossed,The lips and the beautiful eyes are lost,And I seek them all in vain.The gushes of melody, sweet and clear,And the floating voices, I do not hear,But only a sob of pain;And the beating hearts have paused to rest,Ah! dreams are but dreams at the very best.
In the silent midnight watches,When the earth was wrapped in gloom,And the grim and awful darknessCrept unbidden to my room,On the solemn, deathly stillnessOf the night there broke a soundLike ten million wailing voices,Crying loudly from the ground.
From ten million graves, came voicesEast and west and north and south.Leagues apart, and yet togetherSpake they, e'en as with one mouth."Men and women, men and women,"Cried these voices from the ground,And the very earth was shakenWith the strange and awful sound.
"Ye who weep in selfish sorrow,Ye who laugh in selfish mirth,Hark! and listen for a momentTo the voices from the earth.Wake, and listen, ye who slumber.Pause, and listen, ye who feast,To the warning of the voicesFrom the graves in west and east.
"We, the victims of a demon,We, who one, and each, and all,Can cry out before high Heaven,We are slain by Alcohol.We would warn you, youths and maidens,From the path that we have trod.From the path that leads to ruin,And away from Peace and God.
"We, the millions who have fallen,Warn you from the ruddy glowOf the wine in silver goblets,For destruction lies below,Wine and gin, and rum and brandy,Whiskey, cider, ale and beer:These have slain us, and destroyed us--These the foes that brought us here.
"You are safe, you say? ah, Heaven!So we said, and drank, and died,We are safe, we proudly boasted,Yet we sunk down in the tide.There is never any safetyFrom the snares of Alcohol,For the youth who looks on liquor,Tastes, or handles it at all.
"We beseech you, men and women,Fathers, Mothers, Husbands, Wives,To arise and slay the demonThat is threatening dear one's lives.Do not preach of moderationTo your children, for alas!There is not a foe more subtleThan the fateful Social Glass.
"Thoughtless mother, wife or sister,Dash that poison cup away!He, the husband, son, or brother,Who so gaily sips to-day,May to-morrow stagger homeward,Jeered and scorned by sober men.Would you smile upon him proudly--Would you say 'I did it'-then?
"Ah! a vast and mighty numberOf the drunkards in all landsTake the first step to destructionLed by white and fragile hands.Every smile you give the wine-cup,Every glance, oh lady fair,Like a spade digs down, and hollowsOut a drunkard's grave, somewhere.
"Men in office, men in power:Will you let this demon wildStalk unfettered through the nation,Slaying woman, man, and child?Oh, arouse, ye listless mortals!There is work for every one!We have warned you of your danger;We have spoken-we have done!"
Round about me fell the silenceOf the solemn night, once more,And I heard the quiet tickingOf the clock outside my door.It was not a dreamer's fancy--Not a romance of my brainBut the warning of the victimsThat Old Alcohol had slain.
If any line that I ever penned,Or any word I have spoken,Has comforted heart, of foe or friend--In any way, why my life, I'll sayHas reaped the reward of labor.If aught I have said, or written, has madeGladder the heart o' my neighbor.
If any deed that I ever didLightened a sad heart's sorrow,If I have lifted a drooping lidUp to the bright to-morrow,Though the world knows not, nor gives me a thought,Nor ever can know, nor praise me.Yet still I shall say, to my heart alway,That my life, and labor repays me.
If in any way I have helped a soul,Or given a spirit pleasure,Then my cup of joy, I shall think is fullWith an overflowing measure.Though never an eye, but the one on highLooks on my kindly action,Yet, oh my heart, we shall think of our partin the drama, with satisfaction.
I said "I will write a greeting,To the City of the Lakes,Write, while the city sleepeth,And sing it when it wakes.
"To this fair, and blessed city,That the glad New Year doth bringIts best, and its sweetest treasure,Its choicest offering.
"It brings to our joyful Nation,The boon of Peace again,The fields are white, not scarlet,With the death-blood of the slain.
"And not with the sounds of sobbing,Do we usher in the year,Not with hand clasps, and partings,But with goodly mirth and cheer.
"And brother shall meet with brother,In peace, from North to South,And 'I wish you a happy New Year,'Shall echo from mouth to mouth.
"And there shall be feast, and revel,In many a home, to-day,(God grant that the wine be banishedFrom every board away.)
"Thank God for his righteous goodness,For a land not red with strifeThank God for the New Year's blessing,Thank God for the boon of life.
"Oh! beautiful white-robed city,Asleep in the arms of Lakes,I write me a song while it slumbers,And I'!! sing me a song when it wakes."
And thus while I dreamed, and pondered,O'er the glad song I would sing,Lo! I saw the sun was rising,And my muse had taken wing.
If I could clasp my little babeUpon my breast to-night,I would not mind the blowing windThat shrieketh in affright.Oh, my lost babe! my little babe,My babe with dreamful eyes;Thy bed is cold; and night wind boldShrieks woeful lullabies.
My breast is softer than the sod;This room, with lighter hearth,Is better place for thy sweet faceThan frozen mother earth.Oh, my babe! oh, my lost babe!Oh, babe with waxen hands.I want thee so, I need thee so--Come from thy mystic lands!
No love that, like a mother's, fillsEach corner of the heart;No loss like hers, that rends, and chills,And tears the soul apart.Oh, babe--my babe, my helpless babe!I miss thy little form.Would I might creep where thou dost sleep,And clasp thee through the storm.
I hold thy pillow to my breast,To bring a vague relief;I sing the songs that soothed thy restAh me! no cheating grief.My breathing babe! my sobbing babe!I miss thy plaintiff moan,I cannot hear--thou art not nearMy little one, my own.
Thy father sleeps. He mourns thy loss,But little fathers knowThe pain that makes a mother tossThrough sleepless nights of woe.My clinging babe! my nursing babe!What knows thy father-man--How my breasts miss thy lips soft kissNone but a mother can.Worn out, I sleep; I wake--I weepI sleep--hush, hush, my dear;Sweet lamb, fear not--Oh, God! I thought--I thought my babe was here.
See the women--pallid women, of our land!See them fainting, dying, dead, on every hand!See them sinking 'neath a weightFar more burdensome than FateEver placed upon poor human beings' backs.See them falling as they go--By their own hands burdened so--Paling, failing, sighing, dying, on their tracks!
See the women--ghastly women, on the streets!With their corset-tortured waists, and pinched up feet!Hearts and lungs all out of place,Whalebone forms devoid of grace;Faces pallid, robbed of Nature's rosy bloom;Purple-lidded eyes that tell,With a language known too well,Of the sick-room, death-bed, coffin, pall and tomb.
See the women--sickly women, everywhere,See the cruel, killing dresses that they wear!Bearing round those pounds of jet,Can you wonder that they fret,Pale, and pine, and fall the victims of decay?Is it strange the blooming maid,All so soon should droop and fade--Like a beast of burden burdened, day on day?
See the women and their dresses as they go,Trimmed and retrimmed, line on line and row on row;Hanging over fragile hips,Driving color from the lips,Dragging down their foolish wearers to the grave!Suicide, and nothing less,In this awful style of dress!Who shall rise to women's rescue, who shall save?
See the women--foolish women, dying fast;What have all their trimmed-up dresses brought at last?Worry, pain, disease and death,Loss of bloom and gasping breath;Doctors' bill, and golden hours thrown away.They have bartered off for theseBeauty, comfort, health and ease--All to ape the fleeting fashion of a day.
Lean down and lift me higher, Josephine;From the Eternal Hills hast thou not seen;How I do strive for heights? but lacking wings,I cannot grasp at once those better things,To which I in my inmost soul aspire,Lean down and lift me higher.
I grope along--not desolate or sad,For youth and hope and health all keep me glad;But too bright sunlight sometimes makes us blind,And I do grope for heights I cannot find;Oh, thou must know my one supreme desire.Lean down and lift me higher.
Not long ago we trod the selfsame way;Thou knewest how, from day to fleeting day;Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feetWere lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet,But only served to hinder and to tire.Lean down and lift me higher.
Thou hast gone onward to the heights sereneAnd left me here, my loved one, Josephine.I am content to stay until the end,For life is full of promise; but, my friend,Canst thou not help me in my best desire?O! lean, and lift me higher.
Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise,And quick to understand and sympathizeWith all a full soul's needs. It must be so;Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know.Thou must see how I struggle and aspire;Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire.And lean and lift me higher.
All hail to Vinnie Ream!Wisconsin's artist daughter,Who stands to-day crowned with the fameHer noble work has brought her.Lift up your brows, hills of the West,And tell the winds the story,How she, our fairest, and our best,Has climbed the heights of glory.
Three cheers for Vinnie Ream!Who fought with tribulation,And brought from death, to lasting life,The martyr of our Nation.Oh, Spite and Envy, flee in shame!And hide your head, black Malice!She sips, to-day, the sweets of Fame,From Fame's emblazoned chalice.
Thank God for Vinnie Ream!The peerless Badger maiden,Who stands a nation's pride, to-dayWith a nation's honors laden.Ay! crown her Queen at every feast,And strew her path with flowers,Ye people of the South and East,But remember, she is ours!
Bring gifts to Vinnie Ream!I have no gift to offer,Only a little gift of song,And that I humbly proffer;--Only this little gift to layBefore Columbia's daughter,Who stands crowned with the fame, to-day,That her noble work has brought her.
The father sits in his lonely room,Outside sings a little bird.But the shadows are laden with death and gloom,And the song is all unheard.The father's heart is the home of sorrow;His breast is the seat of grief!Who will hunt the paper for him on the morrowWho will bring him sweet reliefFrom wearing thought with innocent chat?Who will find his slippers and bring his hat?Still the little bird singsAnd flutters her wings;The refrain of her song is, "God knows best!He giveth his little children rest."What can she know of these sorrowful things?
The mother sits by the desolate hearth,And weeps o'er a vacant chair.Sorrow has taken the place of mirthJoy has resigned to despair.Bitter the cup the mother is drinking,So bitter the tear-drops start.Sad are the thoughts the mother is thinking--Oh, they will break her heart.Who will run on errands, and romp and play,And mimic the robins the livelong day?Still the little bird singsAnd flutters her wings;"God reigns in heaven, and He will keepThe dear little children that fall asleep."What can she know of these sorrowful things?
Grandmother sits by the open door,And her tears fall down like rain.Was there ever a household so sad before,Will it ever be glad again?Many unwelcome thoughts come flittingInto the granddame's mind.Who will take up the stitches she drops in knitting?Who will her snuff-box find?Who'!! bring her glasses, and wheel her chair,And tie her kerchief, and comb her hair?Still the little bird singsAnd flutters her wings;"God above doeth all things well,I sang it the same when my nestlings fell."Ah! this knows the bird of these sorrowful things.
Lo! here's another corpse exhumed!Another Poet disinterred!Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave,And let the dust be hoed and stirred,And bring the bones of Shakespeare out!'Twill edify the throng, no doubt!
"The Byron scandal has grown old!That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale.The throng is gaping for more food;We need a new sensation tale;Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound;Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!
"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe'And proved beyond the shade of doubt,He saw no raven, after all.Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out!Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good!Who shall we serve up next for food?"
And who, say I, oh seers of earth!What corpse comes next? I daily lookTo see if some sage hasn't provedThat Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rookh.Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore,Who was a plagiarist, and boor!
Sensation, keep your servants out--Let them be watchful, and alert;We'll need a new discovery soon.Tell them to dig about the dirt,And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud,To please and edify the crowd.
Let me lie upon your breast,Lift me up, and let me twine'Round your neck my arms, and restWith your cheek laid close to mine.Kiss me, kiss me tenderly;I am dying now, you know;Though you feel no love for me,Clasp me, kiss me, ere I go.
I have lingered many years,For a moment, love, like this;Oh! my darling! let no tearsMar this drop of earthly bliss;Do not weep because you knowI am dropping off to rest;I am very glad to go,Life was wearisome at best.
I have loved you, oh, so long,Seeing, knowing, in my brain,That my love was wild and wrong,Unrequited, hopeless, vain;Was it weak, unwomanly,Thus to shrine you in my heart?Oh! I struggled frantically--Bade your image to depart.
There are hearts that love will pierce,Then depart, and die at will;Such as mine burns long and fierce,Till the heart is cold and still,Dropping, sinking off to rest,Fearing naught of pain or strife:Kiss me-clasp me to your breast,This is all I ask of life.
The harsh king--Winter--sat upon the hills,And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally.He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills--"I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he,"But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign;And I will show my power to the end.The Summer's flowery retinue I've slain,And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.
"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were,With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees,Soft winds, that made the long green grasses stir--They lost their own identity in things like these!I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all!And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand.The trusty North-Wind answers to my call,And breathes his icy breath upon the land."
The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while,Now floated airily across the lea."Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile,"I come to do all homage unto thee.In all the sunny region, whence I came,I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand!Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame;I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."
Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face.He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise.She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace."Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raiseBut songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo!How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine!I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh,Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."
The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss,To this most sweet sweet-voiced Siren from the South,She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kissUpon the stern white pallor of his mouth.She hung upon his breast, she pressed his cheek,And he was nothing loth to hold her there,While she such tender, loving words did speak,And combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.
And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles,And stole his strength, with every glance she gave,And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles,And with her loving words she dug his grave;And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind,And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills,While the queen Spring, with her whole troop, behind,Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.
Life has its shadows, as well as its sun;Its lights and its shades, all twined together.I tried to single them out, one by one,Single and count them, determining whetherThere was less blue than there was gray,And more of the deep night than of the day.But dear me, dear me, my task's but begun,And I am not half way into the sun.
For the longer I look on the bright side of earth,The more of the beautiful do I discover;And really, I never knew what life was worthTill I searched the wide storehouse of happiness over.It is filled from the cellar well up to the skies,With things meant to gladden the heart and the eyes.The doors are unlocked, you can enter each room,That lies like a beautiful garden in bloom.
Yet life has its shadow, as well as its sun;Earth has its storehouse of joy and of sorrow.But the first is so wide-and my task's but begunThat the last must be left for a far distant morrow.I will count up the blessings God gave in a row,But dear me! when I get through them,I know I shall have little time left for the rest,For life is a swift-flowing river at best.
I know as my life grows older,And mine eyes have clearer sight--That under each rank Wrong, somewhereThere lies the root of Right;That each sorrow has its purpose--By the sorrowing oft unguessed,But as sure as the Sun brings morning,Whatever is--is best.
I know that each sinful action,As sure as the night brings shade,Is sometime, somewhere punished,Tho' the hour be long delayed.I know that the soul is aidedSometimes by the heart's unrest,And to grow means often to suffer--But whatever is--is best.
I know there are no errors,In the great Eternal plan,And all things work togetherFor the final good of man.And I know when my soul speeds onwardIn its grand Eternal quest,I shall say, as I look back earthward,Whatever is--is best.
Where the grim old "Mount of Lamentation"Lifts up its summit like some great dome,I list for the voices of InspirationThat rang o'er the meadows and hills of home.I catch sweet sounds, but I am not near them,There are vast, vague oceans between us rolled;Or it may be my heart is too full to hear themWith the eager ear that it lent of old.
It is full of the joy of to-day--and to-morrow,Which smiles with a promise of fresh delight;And yet my honey is galled with sorrowAs I think of the loved ones out of sight.I wonder so soon if the dear old placesAre growing used to my absent feet,I wonder if newer and fairer facesTo the hearts that housed me seem just as sweet.
I know on the world's great field of battleWhen a comrade falls out how the ranks close in;The strife goes on with its rush and rattle,And who can tell where he late has been?
But through life a grafted vine I may wind meAbout old Eastern homes at length,The roots of love that I left behind meIn Western soil will keep their strength.Though dear grows the "Mount of Lamentation."And dear the ocean, and dear the shore,I shall love the land of my Inspiration,Its lakes, its valleys, its tried hearts, more.
If it were in my dead Past's powerTo let my Present baskIn some lost pleasure for an hour,This is the boon I'd ask:
Re-pedestal from out the dustWhere long ago 'twas hurled,My beautiful incautious trustIn this unworthy world.
The symbol of my own soul's truth--I saw it go with tears--The sweet unwisdom of my youth--That vanished with the years.
Since knowledge brings us only grief,I would return againTo happy ignorance and beliefIn motives and in men.
For worldly wisdom learned in painIs in itself a cross,Significant mayhap of gain,Yet sign of saddest loss.
A queen of indolence and idle grace,Robed in the remnants of a costly gown,She turns the languor of her lovely faceUpon Progression, with a lazy frown.Her throne is built upon a marshy down;Malarial mosses wreathe her, like old lace.With thin, crossed feet, unshod, and bare and brown,She sits indifferent to the world's swift race.
Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim.Too listless, she, for even Fear's alarms,While frightened nations rally in defense,She lifts her smiling creole eyes to him,And, reaching out her shapely, unwashed arms,She clasps her rightful lover-Pestilence.
Sometimes when I have dropped to sleep,Draped in a soft luxurious gloom,Across my drowsing mind will creepThe memory of another room,Where resinous knots in roof boards madeA frescoing of light and shade,And sighing poplars brushed their leavesAgainst the humbly sloping eaves.
Again I fancy, in my dreams,I'm lying in my trundle bed;I seem to see the bare old beamsAnd unhewn rafters overhead;The hornet's shrill falsetto humI hear again, and see him comeForth from his dark-walled hanging house,Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.
There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,And wove into my fair dream's woofThe chattering of a martin bird,Or rain-drops pattering on the roof.Or half awake, and half in fear,I saw the spider spinning nearHis pretty castle where the flyShould come to ruin by-and-by.
And there I fashioned from my brainYouth's shining structures in the air,I did not wholly build in vain,For some were lasting, firm and fair.And I am one who lives to sayMy life has held more good than gray,And that the splendor of the realSurpassed my early dream's ideal.
But still I love to wander backTo that old time and that old place;To tread my way o'er Memory's track,And catch the early morning grace,In that quaint room beneath the rafter,That echoed to my childish laughter;To dream again the dreams that grewMore beautiful as they came true.
Out from my window westwardI turn full oft my face;But the mountains rebuke the visionThat would encompass space;They lift their lofty foreheadsTo the kiss of the clouds above,And ask, "With all our glory,Can we not win your love?"
I answer, "No, oh mountains!I see that you are grand;But you have not the breadth and beautyOf the fields in my own land;You narrow my range of visionAnd you even shut from meThe voice of my old comrade,The West Wind wild and free."
But to-day I climbed the mountainsOn the back of a snow-white steed,And the West Wind came to greet me--He flew on the wings of speed.His charger, and mine that bore me,Went gaily neck to neck.Till the town in the valley below usLooked like a small, dark speck.
And oh! what tales he whisperedAs he rode there by me,Of friends whose smiling facesI am so soon to see.And the mountains frowned in anger,Because I balked their spite,And met my old-time comradeThere on their very height;
But I laughed up in their faces,As I rode slowly back,While the Wind went faster and faster,Like a race-horse on the track.
Before this scarf was faded,What hours of mirth it knew;How gaily it paradedFor smiling eyes to view.The days were tinged with glory,The nights too quickly sped,And life was like a storyWhere all the people wed.
Before this rosebud wilted,How passionately sweetThe wild waltz swelled and liltedIn time for flying feet;How loud the bassoons muttered,The horns grew madly shrill,And, oh, the vows lips utteredThat hearts could not fulfill.
Before this fan was broken,Behind its lace and pearlWhat whispered words were spoken,What hearts were in a whirl;What homesteads were selectedIn Fancy's realm of Spain,What castles were erected,Without a room for pain.
When this odd glove was mated,How thrilling seemed the play;May be our hearts are sated--They tire so soon to-day.Oh, thrust away those treasures,They speak the dreary truth;We have outgrown the pleasuresAnd keen delights of youth.
When shall I hear the thrushes sing,And see their graceful, round throats swelling?When shall I watch the bluebirds bringThe straws and twiglets for their dwelling?When shall I hear among the treesThe little martial partridge drumming?Oh! hasten! sights and sounds that pleaseThe summer is so long in coming.
The winds are talking with the sun;I hope they will combine togetherAnd melt the snow-drifts, one by one,And bring again the golden weather.Oh haste, make haste, dear sun and wind,I long to hear the brown bee humming;I seek for blooms I cannot find,The summer is so long coming.
The winter has been cold, so cold;Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary,And all its sports are stale and old;We wait for something now more cheery.Come up, O summer, from the south,And bring the harps your hands are thrumming.We pine for kisses from your mouth!Oh! do not be long in coming.
We will lay our summer away, my friend,So tenderly lay it away.It was bright and sweet to the very end,Like one long, golden day.Nothing sweeter could come to me,Nothing sweeter to you.We will lay it away, and let it be,Hid from the whole world's view.
We will lay it away like a dear, dead thingDead, yet forever fair;And the fresh green robes of a deathless spring,Though dead, it shall always wear.We will not hide it in grave or tomb,But lay it away to sleep,Guarded by beauty, and light, and bloom,Wrapped in a slumber deep.
We were willing to let the summer go--Willing to go our ways;But never on earth again I knowWill either find such days.You are my friend, and it may seem strange,But I would not see you again;I would think of you, though all things change,Just as I knew you then.
If we should go back to the olden place,And the summer time went, too,It would be like looking a ghost in the face,So much would be changed and new.We cannot live it over again,Not even a single day;And as something sweet, and free from pain,We had better lay it away.
I called to the summer sun,"Come over the hills to-day!Unlock the rivers, and tell them to run,And kiss the snow-drifts and melt them away."And the sun came over--a tardy lover--And unlocked the river, and told it to glideAnd kissed the snow-drift till it fainted and died.
I called to the robin, "Come back!Come up from the south and sing!"And robin sailed up on an airy track,And smoothed down his feathers and oiled his wing.And the notes came gushing, gurgling, rushing,In thrills and quavers, clear, mellow and strong,Till the glad air quivered and rang with song.
I said to the orchard, "Blow!"I said to the meadow, "Bloom!"And the trees stood white, like brides in a row,And the breeze was laden with rare perfume.And over the meadows, in lights and shadows,The daisies white and violets blue,And yellow-haired buttercups blossomed and grew.
I called to a hope, that diedWith the death of the flowers and grass,"Come back! for the river is free to glide--The robin sings, and the daisies bloom." Alas!For the hope I cherished too rudely perishedTo ever awaken and live again,Though a hundred summers creep over the plain.
Heigh ho! well, the season's over!Once again we've come to Lent!Programme's changed from balls and parties--Now we're ordered to repent.Forty days of self-denial!Tell you what I think it pays--Know't'l freshen my complexionGoing slow for forty days.
No more savory Frenchy suppers--Such as Madame R-- can give.Well, I need a littlethinningJust a trifle--sure's you live!Sometimes been afraid my plumpnessMight grow into downright fat.Rector urges need of fasting--Think there's lot of truth in that.
We must meditate, he tells us,On our several acts of sin.And repent them. Let me see now--Whereabouts shall I begin!Flirting--yes, they say 'tis wicked;Well, I'm awful penitent.(Wonder if my handsome majorGoes to early Mass through Lent?)
Love of dress! I'm guilty there, too--Guess it's my besetting sin.Still I'm somewhat like the lilies,For I neither toil nor spin.Forty days I'!! wear my plainest--Could repentance be more true?What a saving on my dresses!They'll make over just like new.
Pride, and worldliness and all that,Rector bade us pray aboutEvery day through Lenten season,And I mean to be devout!Papa always talks retrenchment--Lent is just the very thing.Hope he'!! get enough in pocketSo we'!! move up town next spring.
Wherever my feet may wanderWherever I chance to be,There comes, with the coming of even' timeA vision sweet to me.I see my mother sittingIn the old familiar place,And she rocks to the tune her needles sing,And thinks of an absent face.
I can hear the roar of the cityAbout me now as I write;But over an hundred miles of snowMy thought-steeds fly to-night,To the dear little cozy cottage,And the room where mother sits,And slowly rocks in her easy chairAnd thinks of me as she knits.
Sometimes with the merry dancersWhen my feet are keeping time,And my heart beats high, as young hearts will,To the music's rhythmic chime.My spirit slips over the distanceOver the glitter and whirl,To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits,And thinks of her "little girl."
When I listen to voices that flatter,And smile, as women do,To whispered words that may be sweet,But are not always true;I think of the sweet, quaint pictureAfar in quiet ways,And I know one smile of my mother's eyesIs better than all their praise.
And I know I can never wanderFar from the path of right,Though snares are set for a woman's feetIn places that seem most bright.For the vision is with me always,Wherever I chance to be,Of mother sitting, rocking and knitting,Thinking and praying for me.
Throughout these mellow autumn days,All sweet and dim, and soft with haze,I argue with my unwise heart,That fain would choose the idler's part.
My heart says, "Let us lie and dreamUnder the sunshine's softened beam,This is the dream-time of the year,When Heaven itself seems bending near.
"See how the calm still waters lieAnd dream beneath the arching sky.The sun draws on a veil of haze,And dreams away these golden days.
"Put by the pen--lay thought aside,And cease to battle with the tide.Let us, like Nature, rest and dreamAnd float with the current of the stream."
So pleads my heart. I answer "Nay,Work waits for you and me to-day.Behind these autumn hours of gold.The winter lingers, bleak and cold.
"And those who dream too long or much,Must waken, shivering, at his touch,With naught to show for vanished hours,But dust of dreams and withered flowers.
"So now, while days are soft and warm,We must make ready for the storm."Thus, through the golden, hazy weather,My heart and I converse together.
And yet, I dare not turn my eyesTo pebbly shores or tender skies,Because I am so fain to doE'en as my heart pleads with me to.
Sing to me! something of sunlight and bloom,I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,I am so sick with the world's noise and strife,--Sing of the beauty and brightness of life--Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing to me! something that's jubilant, glad!I am so weary, my soul is so sad.All my earth riches are covered with rust,All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing of the blossoms that open in spring,How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,Say, though the winter is round about me,There are bright summers and springs yet to be.Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,I have not quite done with happiness yet.Sing to me, sing to me!
Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;Turn the light lower--there--no, do not speak,But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.Sing to me, sing to me!