The Project Gutenberg eBook ofYesterdaysThis 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: YesterdaysAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4006]Most recently updated: December 30, 2007Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YESTERDAYS ***
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: YesterdaysAuthor: Ella Wheeler WilcoxRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4006]Most recently updated: December 30, 2007Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition David Price
Title: Yesterdays
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4006]Most recently updated: December 30, 2007
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YESTERDAYS ***
Transcribed from the 1910 Gay and Hancock edition David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
byELLA WHEELER WILCOX
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.12 & 13, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDENLONDON1910
[All rights reserved]
CONTENTS
ForewordAn Old HeartWarp and WoofSo LongIf I could only weepWhy should we sighA wakeful nightIf one should dive deepTwoNo comfortIt does not matterThe under-toneWorth livingMore fortunateHe will not comeWorn outRondeauTriflesCourageThe otherMadWhichLove’s burialIncompleteOn rainy daysGeraldineOnly in dreamsCircumstanceSimple creedsThe bridal eveGood nightNo placeFoundA man’s reverieWhen my sweet lady singsSpectresOnly a linePartingEstrangedBefore and afterAn empty cribThe arrivalGo backWhy I love herDiscontentA dreamThe nightNew YearReverieThe lawSpirit of a Great ControlNoonThe searchA man’s good-byeAt the hopMetReturned birdsA crushed leafA curious storyJenny LindLife’s keyBridge of prayerNew yearDeceitful calmUn RencontreBurned outOnly a gloveRemindersA dirgeNot anchoredThe new loveAn east windCheating timeOnly a slight flirtationWhat the rain sawAfterOur petty caresThe ship and the boatCome nearA suggestionA fisherman’s babyContent and happinessThe CusineI wonder whyA woman’s handPresentimentTwo roomsThree at the operaA strain of musicSmokeAn autumn dayWishesThe playAs we look backWhyListenTogetherOne nightLost nationThe captiveNo songTwo friendsI didn’t thinkA burialTheir facesThe lullabyMirageAlone in the houseAn old bouquetAt the bridalBest
This little volume might be called ‘Echoes from the land of youthful imaginings’; or ‘Ghosts of old dreams.’ It has been compiled at the request of Messrs. Gay and Hancock (my only authorised publishers in Great Britain), and contains verses written in my early youth, and which never before (with the exception, perhaps, of three or four) have been placed in book form.
Given the poetical temperament, and a lonely environment, with few distractions, youthful imagination is sure to express itself in mournful wails and despairing moans. Such wails and moans will be found to excess in this little book, and will serve to show better than any amount of common-sense reasoning, how fleeting are the sorrows of youth, and how slight the foundation on which the young build towers of despair.
In the days when these verses were written, each little song represented a few dollars (to my emaciated purse), and so the slightest experience of my own, or of any friend, with every passing mood, every trivial happening, was utilised by my imaginative and thrifty muse.
That the writer has always possessed robust health, and has lived to a good age, is proof positive that the verses are not all expressions of personal experiences, since no human being could have borne such continual agonies and retained life and reason.
All the verses in the book were written while I bore the name of Ella Wheeler, and are quite inconsistent with the ideas and philosophy of
Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
August1910.
How young I am! Ah! heaven, this curse of youthDoth mock me from my mirror with great eyes,And pulsing veins repeat the unwelcome truth,That I must live, though hope within me dies.
So young, and yet I have had all of life.Why, men have lived to see a hundred years,Who have not known the rapture, joy, and strifeOf my brief youth, its passion and its tears.
Oh! what are years? A ripe three score and tenHold often less of life, in its best sense,Than just a twelvemonth lived by other men,Whose high-strung souls are ardent and intense.
But having seen all depths and scaled all heights,Having a heart love thrilled, and sorrow wrung,Knowing all pains, all pleasures, all delights,Now I would die—but cannot, being young.
Nothing is left me, but supreme despair;The bitter dregs that tell of wasted wine.Come furrowed brow, dull eye, and frosted hair,Companions fit for this old heart of mine.
Through the sunshine, and through the rainOf these changing days of mist and splendour,I see the face of a year-old painLooking at me with a smile half tender.
With a smile half tender, and yet all sad,Into each hour of the mild SeptemberIt comes, and finding my life grown gladLooks down in my eyes, and says ‘Remember.’
Says ‘Remember,’ and points behindTo days of sorrow, and tear-wet lashes;When joy lay dead and hope was blind,And nothing was left but dust and ashes.
Dust and ashes and vain regret,Flames fanned out, and the embers falling.But the sun of the saddest day must set,And hope wakes ever with Springtime’s calling.
With Springtime’s calling the pulses thrill;And the heart is tuned to a sweeter measure.For never a green Spring crossed the hillThat came not laden with some new pleasure.
Some new pleasure that brings content;And the heart looks up with a smile of gladness,And wonders idly when sorrow wentOut of the life that seemed all sadness.
That seemed all sadness, and yet grew brightWith colours we thought could tinge it never.Yet I think the pain though out of sight,Like the warp of the carpet, is there for ever.
There for ever, and by and byWhen the woof wears thin, or draws asunder,We see the sombre threads that lieIntertwining and twisting under.
Twisting under and binding soThe brighter threads that they may not sever.Thus the pain of a year agoMust stay a part of my life for ever.
The dawn grows red in the eastern sky,(Long, so long is the day,)And I lean from my lattice and sigh and sigh,As I watch the night fog creeping byAnd vanish over the bay.
The thrush soars up, over green clad hills,(The day is long, so long;)Like liquid silver his music spills,And ever it quivers, and runs, and trillsIn a glad sweet burst of song.
Under my window there blooms a rose,(How long a day can be.)And I lean and whisper what no soul knowsOf my heart’s sorrows and secret woes,And the red rose sighs, ‘Ah me!’
A ship sails into the waiting bay,(The day is long, alack,)But what would that matter to me, I prayIf the ship that sailed out yesterdayShould never more come back.
The summer sun rides high and clear,(The day is long, so long,)How long it must be ere it grows to a year—How deep the sorrow that finds no tear,But only a wail of song.
If I could only weep,I think sweet help with my salt tears would come,To ease the cruel pain that is so dumb,And will not let me sleep.
Down in my heart, down deepA poisoned arrow burns. It would fall outAnd tears would wash the wound, I have no doubt,If I could only weep.
Maybe my pulse would leap,And bring one thrill back, of a vanished day,Instead of throbbing in this dull, dead way,If I could only weep.
O silent Fates who steepNectar or gall for us through all the years,Take what thou wilt, but give me back my tears,And let me weep and weep.
Why should we sigh o’er a summer that’s dead—Let us think of the summer to be.It always better to look ahead,For the rose will come again just as redAnd just as fair to see.
Why should we weep o’er a pleasure past—Let us look for the pleasure to be.New shells on the shore by new waves are cast;Let us prize each new joy more than the last,And laugh if the old joy flee.
What folly to die for a love that was—Let us live for the one to be.For time is passing, and will not pause;How foolish the shore were it sad becauseOne wave ebbed out to sea.
Then let us not sing of a year that is fled—Though dear its memory be:For though summer and pleasure and love seem dead,Love will be sweet, and the rose will be redWhen they blossom for you and me.
In the dark and the gloom when winds were frettingLike restless children worn out with play,I said to my heart, ‘This task, forgetting—Is harder now than it is by day.For a hungry love that hides from the light,Like a tiger steals forth, and is bold at night.’
The wind wailed low like a woman weeping;Deeper and darker the dense gloom grew.And, oh! for the old, sweet nights of sleeping,When dreams were happy, and love was true.Before the stars from heaven went outIn a sudden blackness of dread and doubt.
The wind wailed loud, like a madman shrieking,And I said to my heart, ‘Oh! vain, vain strife;We cannot forget, and the peace we are seekingCan only be won at the end of life.For see! like a lurid and living sparkThe eyes of the tiger shine through the dark.’
The wind sighed low like a sick man dying,And the dawn crept silently over the hill.And I said, ‘O heart! there is no use trying,We mustremember, and love on still.’And the tiger, appeased with its midnight feast,Fled as the dawn rose red in the East.
Once more on the beach with the shifting clouds o’er me(Like the friends of a day),And the sea all unchanged, like a true friend before me,How the years flow away,How the summers go by.
The shifting clouds o’er me, the shifting sands under;Why need it seem strange,Why need I feel bitter, and why should I wonderThat hearts, too, should changeAs the summers go by.
Down here is the path where we wandered together,’Neath the midsummer moon.Her love was sweet as the sweet summer weather,And left us as soon,And the summers go by.
The bathers laugh loud in the surf over yonder.If one should dive deep,And rise not—no more need he suffer or ponderO’er losses, or weep,But sink low and sleepWhile the summers go by.
As I sat in my opera box last nightIn a glimmer of gems and a blaze of light,And smiling that all might see,This curious thought came all unsought—That there weretwoof me.
One who sat in her silk and lace,With gems on her bosom and smiles on her face,And hot-house blossoms in her hair,While her fan kept time to the swaying rhymeOf the lilting opera air.
And one who sat in the dark somewhere,With her wan face hid by her falling hair,And her hands clasped over her eyes;And the sickening pain of heart and brainBreathed out in long-drawn sighs.
One in the sheen of her opera suit;And one who was swathed from head to foot,In crêpe of the blackest dye.One hiding her heart and playing a part,And one with her mask thrown by.
But over the voice of the singer there,The one who sat with a rose in her hair,Seemed ever to hear the moanOf the one who kept in the dark and weptWith her desolate heart alone.
O mad with mirth are the birds to-dayThat over my head are winging.There is nothing but glee in the roundelayThat I hear them singing, singing.On wings of light, up, out of sight—I watch them airily flying.What do they know of the world below,And the hopes that are dying, dying?
The roses turn to the sun’s warm sky,Their sweet lips red and tender;Oh! life to them is a dream of bliss,Of love, and passion, and splendour.What know they of the world to-day,Of hearts that are silently breaking;Of the human breast, and its great unrest,And its pitiless aching, aching?
They send me out into Nature’s heartFor help to bear my sorrow,Nothing of strength can she impart,No peace from her can I borrow.Her rose-red June and her billing tune,Her birds and blossoms only,Mocked at the grief that seeks relief,And leave me lonely—lonely.If I might stand on the treacherous sand,And know I was sinking, sinking,While the moaning sea sang a dirge for me,—Why, that were comfort, I’m thinking.
It does not matter very much to meThrough what strange ways my pathway now may lead;Since I know that it runs away from thee,I give it little heed.
It does not matter if in calm or strife,There ebb or flow for me the future’s tide.I had but one great longing in my life,And that has been denied.
It does not matter if I stand or fall,Or walk with kings, or with the rank and file;Life’s loftiest aims and best ambitions allWere centred in thy smile.
It does not matter what the world may say:I feel no interest in its blame or praise.I only know we dwell apart to-day,And shall through endless days.
It does not matter. For my restless heartIs numb to sorrow, or to pleasure’s touch.Since it must be that we two drift apart,Why, nothing matters much.
In the dull, dim dawn of day I heardThe twitter and thrill of a brown-backed bird,As he sat and sang in the leafless tree,A herald of beautiful days to be.
But the minor running under the strainWent to my heart with a sudden pain,For never so sad a sound I heardAs the troubled thrill of the brown-backed bird.
Not in the wearisome wash of waves,With moaning murmur of wrecks and graves,Not in the weird winds’ wildest wail,Not in the roar of the rushing gale.
Not in the sob of dying yearsAre sounds so solemn and full of tears.O herald of days that are green and glad,Why was your morning song so sad?
Have you a secret hidden away,Of sorrow to come with a coming day?Folded under a folded leaf,Lies there trouble and bitter grief?
The shadow of death, and tears, and gloomComing to me when roses bloom?Will the beautiful days I long for soHold like your song a strain of woe?
What is the secret you hide from meO herald of days that are to be?And why was that desolate minor moanLurking under your gladdest tone?
I know not what the future may hold,Or how to others it seems,But I know my skies have held more goldThan I used to find in my dreams.
Though the whole world sings of hopes death chilled,In grateful truth I say,That my best hopes have been fulfilled,And more than fulfilled to-day.
Though oft my arrow I aim at the sunTo see it fall into the sand,Yet just as often some work I have doneIs better than I have planned.
I do not always grasp the pleasureFor which I reach, maybe;But quite as frequently over-measureIs given by joy to me.
To-morrow may bring a grief behind itThat will thoroughly change my mood;But we only can speak of a thing as we find it—And I have found life good.
I hold that life more fortunate by farThat sits with its sweet memories aloneAnd cherishes a joy for ever flownBeyond the reach of accident to mar.(Some joy that was extinguished like a star)Than that which makes the prize so much its ownThat its poor commonplacenesses are shown;(Which in all things, when viewed too closely, are.)
Better to mourn a blossom snatched awayBefore it reached perfection, than beholdWith dry, unhappy eyes, day after day,The fresh bloom fade, and the fair leaf decay.Better to lose the dream, with all its gold,Than keep it till it changes to dull grey.
Take out the blossom in your hair abloom,No more it seemeth beautiful, or bright,And sickening is its subtly sweet perfume—He will not come to-night.
Take off the necklace with its sparkling gem,And rings that glow and glitter in the light,And fling them in the case that waits for them—He will not come to-night.
Take off the robe a little while agoYou chose, to make you fairer in his sight;’Tis ten o’clock. So late you can but knowHe will not come to-night.
He will not come. God grant you strength and grace,For never more upon your mortal sightShall dawn a glimpse of that beloved faceThat did not come to-night.
He will not come. And through the shadowed years,The perfume of that blossom that you woreShall stir the fount of salt and bitter tears—For one who comes no more.
I saw a young heart in the grasp of pain;With bruiséd breast, and broken, bleeding wingShipwrecked on hopeless love’s tempestuous main,Lay the poor tortured thing.
It pulsed with all the anguish of despair;It ached with all a fond heart’s awful power;Yet I, who stood unhurt above it there,Envied its lot that hour.
I, who have wasted all the sacred, deepEmotions of my soul in spendthrift fashion,Until no sorrow now can make me weep—No joy stir me with passion.
I, who have scattered here and there the goldOf my heart’s store, until I spent the whole;Yet unto each so little gave to hold,That I enriched no soul.
I, who have sold the birthright of sweet tears,And no more feel a thrill in pulse or brain,Would gladly have exchanged my tasteless yearsFor one salt hour of pain.
Weep on, ye mourners. Glory in the crossOf some great grief. Thank God you do not knowThe greater grief that comes but with the lossOf power to suffer woe.
As you forgot I may forget,When summer dews cease to be wet.When whippoorwills disdain the night,When sun and moon are no more bright,And all the stars at midnight set.
When jay birds sing, and thrushes fret,When snowfalls come in flakes of jet,When hearts that shelter love are light,I may forget.
When mortal life no cares beset,When April brings no violet,When wrong no longer wars with right,When all hope’s ships shall heave in sight,And memory holds no least regret,I may forget.
Only a spar from a broken shipWashed in by a careless wave;But it brought back the smile of a vanished lip,And his past peered out of the grave.
Only a leaf that an idle breezeTossed at her passing feet;But she seemed to stand under the dear old trees,And life again was sweet.
Only the bar of a tender strainThey sang in days gone by;But the old love woke in her heart again,The love they had sworn should die.
Only the breath of a faint perfumeThat floated up from a rose;But the bolts slid back from a marble tomb,And I looked on a dear dead face.
Who vaunts the might of a human will,When a perfume or a soundCan wake a Past that we bade lie still,And open a long closed wound?
Whether the way be dark or lightMy soul shall sing as I journey on,As sweetly sing in the deeps of nightAs it sang in the burst of the golden dawn.
Nothing can crush me, or silence me long,Though the heart be bowed, yet the soul will rise,Higher and higher on wings of song,Till it swims like the lark in a sea of skies.
Though youth may fade, and love grow cold,And friends prove false, and best hopes blight,Yet the sun will wade in waves of gold,And the stars in glory will shine at night.
Though all earth’s joys from my life are missed,And I of the whole world stand bereft,Yet dawns will be purple and amethyst,And I cannot be sad while the seas are left.
For I am a part of the mighty whole;I belong to the system of life and death.I am under the law of a Great Central,And strong with the courage of love and faith.
All alone with my heart to-nightI sit, and wonder, and sigh.What is she like, is she dark, or light,This other woman who has the rightTo love him better than I?
We never have spoken her name, we two;There was no need somehow,But she lives, and loves, and her heart is true;From the very first this much I knew,So why should it hurt me now.
I fancy her tall, and I think her fair,Oh! fairer than I by half.With sweet, calm eyes, and a wealth of hair,And a heart as perfectly free from careAs is her silvery laugh.
She loves rich jewels that flash in the light,And revels in costly lace,And first in the morning, and last at nightShe kisses one ring on her finger white;(How came those tears on my face?)
She has all best things to make life sweet:Youth, and beauty, and gold,And a love that renders it quite complete.(I wonder why from my head to my feetI feel so deathly cold?)
Yet in all the store of her great delight(And she has so much, so much)She cannot be gladder than I, in the brightSweet smile he gave her when he said good night—And his warm hand’s close, kind touch.
I must put out the light and go to bed;I wonder would she careIf she knew, when I knelt with low bowed head,I prayed for her, but that I saidHis name the last in my prayer?
Could I but hear you laugh across the street,Though I, or mine, shared nothing in your glee,Could I taste that one drop of bitter sweet,’Twere more than life to me.
If I might see you coming through the door,Though with averted face and smileless eye,Were I allowed that little boon, no more,Then I were glad to die.
But oh, my God! this living day on day,Stripped of the only joy your starved heart had,Shut in a prison world and forced to stay—Why that way souls go mad!
To-day I heard a woman say the earth,All blossom garlanded, was fair to see.I laughed with such intensity of mirth,The woman shrank from me.
Fair? Why, I see the blackness of the tombWhere’er I turn, and grave mould on each brow;And grinning faces peer out of the gloom—Good God! Iammad now.
We are both of us sad at heart,But I wonder who can sayWhich has the harder part,Or the bitterer grief to-day.
You grieve for a love that was lostBefore it had reached its prime;I sit here and count the costOf a love that has lived its time.
Your blossom was plucked in its May,In its dawning beauty and pride;Mine lived till the August day,And reached fruition and died.
You pressed its leaves in a book,And you weep sweet tears o’er them.Dry eyed I sit and lookOn a withered and broken stem.
And now that all is told,Which is the sadder, pray,To give up your dream with its gold,Or to see it fade into grey?
See him quake and see him tremble,See him gasp for breath.Nay, dear, he does not dissemble,This is really Death.He is weak, and worn, and wasted,Bear him to his bier.All there is of life he’s tasted—He has lived a year.
He has passed his day of glory,All his blood is cold,He is wrinkled, thin, and hoary,He is very old.Just a leaf’s life in the wild wood,Is a love’s life, dear.He has reached his second childhoodWhen he’s lived a year.
Long ago he lost his reason,Lost his trust and faith—Better far in his first seasonHad he met with death.Let us have no pomp or splendour,No vain pretence here.As we bury, grave, yet tender,Love that’s lived a year.
All his strength and all his passion,All his pride and truth,These were wasted, spendthrift fashion,In his fiery youth.Since for him life holds no beautyLet us shed no tear,As we do the last sad duty—Love has lived a year.
The summer is just in its grandest prime,The earth is green and the skies are blue;But where is the lilt of the olden time,When life was a melody set to rhyme,And dreams were so real they all seemed true?
There is sun on the meadow, and blooms on the bushes,And never a bird but is mad with glee;But the pulse that bounds, and the blood that rushes,And the hope that soars, and the joy that gushes,Are lost for ever to you and me.
There are dawns of amber and amethyst;There are purple mountains, and pale pink seasThat flush to crimson where skies have kist;But out of life there is something missed—Something better than all of these.
We miss the faces we used to know,The smiling lips and the eyes of truth.We miss the beauty and warmth and glowOf the love that brightened our long ago,And ah! we miss our youth.
On rainy days old dreams arise,From graves where they have lonely lain;With wan white cheeks and mournful eyes,They press against the window pane.One dream is bolder than the rest:She enters at the door and stays,A welcome yet unbidden guestOn rainy days.
On rainy days, my dream and ITurn back the hands of memory’s books:We sup on pleasures long gone by—We drink of unforgotten brooks;We ransack garrets of the Past,We sing old songs, we play old plays;While hurrying Time looks on aghast,On rainy days.
On rainy days, my ghostly dreamsCome clothed in garments like the mist,But through that vapoury veiling, gleamsThe lustrous eyes my lips have kissed.A radiant head leans on my heart,We walk in well-remembered ways;But oh! the sorrow when we part,On rainy days.
Just as the sun went bathing in a seaOf liquid amber, flecked with caps of gold, I toldThe sweet old story unto Geraldine, my Queen,Who long hath made the whole of life for me.
But though she smiled upon me yesterday,And heaven seemed near because she was so kind, I findShe held me but as one of many men; and thenDismissed me in her proud, yet gracious way.
Ah, Geraldine! my lady of sweet arts,There waits for thee not very far away, a dayWhen thou shalt waken out of tranquil sleep, and weepSuch bitter tears as spring from anguished hearts.
Thou shalt look in thy mirror with dismayTo find upon each feature of thy face, the traceOf time, the lover who shall follow thee, and seeThy rare youth slipping suddenly away.
So self-assured, so certain of thy power,It shall come on thee with a swift surprise. Thine eyesAppalled, shall fall upon each certain, strange, sad change,And rob thee of thy triumph in an hour.
And when that day shall come, as come it must,You then will think of me, sweet Geraldine, my Queen,And of the faithful heart there tossed away one day,Before thy dead sea apples turned to dust.
To dust and ashes, leaving nothing more,That day will come, my lady, I can wait; and FateShall right my wrongs. Thou smilest, Geraldine, my Queen!Ah well, so have fair women smiled before.
How strange are dreams. Last night I dreamed about you.All that old bitterness of loss and pain,The desolation of my lot without you,The keen regret, all, all came back again.
Again I faced that terrible old sorrow;Too numb to weep, too cowardly to pray.Again the blankness of a dread to-morrowFilled me with sickly terror and dismay.
I woke in tears; but lo! a moment after,When every vestige of my dream was fled,I broke the silence of my room with laughter,To think sleep had revived a thing so dead.
Thank God, that only in the realms of fancyCan that old sorrow wake again to strife.No fate is strong enough—no necromancy—To make it stir one pulse of my calm life.
My heart is light, my lot is blest without you,Our early sorrows are not what they seem,Now in my slumber, if I dream about youI wake to laugh at such an idle dream.
Talk not to me of souls that do conceiveSublime ideals, but, deterred by FateAnd bound by circumstances, sit desolate,And long for heights they never can achieve.
It is not so. That which we most desire,Withunderstanding, we at last obtain,In part or whole. I hold there is no rain,No deluge, that can quench a heavenly fire.
Show me thy labour, I straightway will nameThe nature of thy thoughts. Who bends the bow,And lets the arrow from the strained string go,Strikes somewhere near the object of his aim.
We build our ships from timbers of the brain;With products of the soul we load the hold;Where lies the blame if they bring back no gold,Or if they spring a leak upon the main?
There is no Fate, no Providence, no Chance,The will is all. So be it thou art pure,And strong of purpose, thy success is sure;But fools and sluggards prate of circumstance.
If this were our creed it were creed enoughTo keep us thoughtful and make us brave;On this sad journey o’er pathways roughThat lead us steadily on to the grave.
Speak no evil,and cause no ache,Utter no jest that can pain awake;Guard your actions and bridle your tongue,Words are adders when hearts are stung.
If this were our aim, it were all, in sooth,That any soul needs, to climb to heaven,And we would not cumber the way of truthWith dreary dogmas, or rites priest given.
Help whoever,whenever you can,Man for ever needs aid from man.Let never a day die in the West,That you have not comforted some sad heart.
Were this our belief we need not broodO’er intricateismsand modes of faith—For this embodies the highest goalFor the life we are living, or after death.
We meet no trials we do not need;Well borne sorrow is holy seed;It shall rise in a harvest of golden grain,And a wise soul ever thanks God for pain.
I stand in the blaze of the candle rays,While my merry maidens threeArrange each tress, and loop my dress,And render me fair to see.But oh! for the eyes that never againWill smile like the stars on me.
I sweep down the stair, a bride most fair,And some one takes my hand.I am numb and cold, but the lie is told,I smile and my lord is bland.But oh! for a sight of my rover wild,Who wanders abroad in the land.
I am queen of the ball and the festal hall;I have beauty and youth and gold,Men bow at the shrine of this lord of mine—Lord of his sums untold.But oh! to be off in the wilds to-nightWith my lover brave and bold.
I dream a dream while the candles gleam,While the dancers merrily glide.Neath the evening star I am speeding far,Oh! a good steed do I ride;And my heart beats high with hope and cheer,For my love is at my side.
We ride and sing, and the echoes ringWith our voices blithe and free,We have no wealth but our love and health,And our cot on the wide green lea;But I love my love with a mighty love,And I know that he loves me.
We ride away in the dying day,We ride till we reach the spotWhere all alone in the wilds unknownWe find our lonely cot.And I have no wish in the whole wide world,And I know that my love has not.
With a dreary moan the viols groan,And the dancers pause for breath,And my lord says, ‘Dear, you are ill, I fear,You are paler than your wreath.’O God! O God! to be out in the night,Riding with love or death.
The day is at its golden height,No shadow falls on sea or land;And yet to thee I say Good night,As we stand here hand clasped in hand,Good night—Good night.
The laughing waves are summer blue,The bees hum in the sun’s warm light;But frosts of winter chill me through,I shiver as I say Good night.Good night—Good night.
How often at the close of dayWith smiling lips we’ve said those words:And listened as we turned awayTo hear them echoed by the birds,Good night—Good night.
We did not dream then of this hour,This sad, sad hour for you and me;We did not dream there was a powerCould force us for eternityTo say Good night.
Good night—nay, turn your eyes away;I cannot bear their tender light.Now evermore to golden day,To golden hope, a last Good night,Good night—Good night.
When days grow long, and brain and hands grow weary,And hot the city street,Forth to the haunts, by cooling winds made cheeryWe fly with willing feet.
We leave our cares and labours all behind us,The city’s noise and din,And, hid securely where they cannot find us,We drink the sunshine in.
But when the days grow long with bitter sorrow,And hearts grow sick with woe,Where are the haunts that we may seek to-morrow?Where can we hide or go?
Holds earth no nook, where hearts with sorrow breaking,May find a summer’s rest?A season’s respite from the weary achingThat gnaws within the breast?
O God! if we could fly and leave behind usOur crosses and our grief,Could hide a season where they could not find us,What infinite relief.
Found—as I rushed through the great world’s mart,In a race for gold and a pleasure quest,A passionate, throbbing human heartSuddenly found in my breast.
I had always laughed at the foolish word;I had said aloud in my boasting glee,That never a heart in my bosom stirred,That mybraingoverned me.
I was proud with the sense of my might and power‘It is will, not heart that wins,’ I said.But I suddenly found one sad, strange hourThat the strength of my will had fled.
For up in my breast there rose supremeA strong man’s heart, and all on fire:Drunk with the wine of a wild, sweet dream,And tortured with desire.
It is tossed with hope, and fear, and doubt,It is mad with the fever of love’s unrest,I wish to God I could pluck it out—This heart I found in my breast.
How cold the old porch seems. A dreary chillCreeps upward from the river at twilight,And yet, I like to linger here at night,And dream the summer tarries with us still.
The summer and the summer guests, or guest.(Men rarely dream in plurals.) Over thereBeyond the pillars, stands the rustic chair,As bare and empty as a robin’s nest.
No pretty head reclines its golden bandsAgainst the back. No playful winds discloseDistracting glimpses of embroidered hose:No palm leaf waves in dainty, dangerous hands.
How cold it is! That star up yonder gleamsA white ice sickle from the heavenly eaves.That bleak wind from the river sighs and grieves,Perchance o’er some poor fellow’s broken dreams.
Come in, and shut the door, and leave that starTo watch above the lonely portico.Summer and summer guests and dreams must go.Well, Fate was kind to leave me my cigar.
When she, my lady, smiles,I feel as one who, lost in darksome wilds,Sees suddenly the sun in middle skyShining upon him like a great glad eye.When my sweet lady smiles.
When she, my lady laughs,I feel as one who some elixir quaffs;Some nameless nectar, made of wines of suns,And through my veins a subtle iveresse runs.When my sweet lady laughs.
And when my lady talks,I am as one who by a brooklet walks,Some sweet-tongued brooklet, which the whole long day,Holds converse with the birds along the way.When my loved lady talks.
And when my lady sings,Oh then I hear the beat of silver wings;All that is earthly from beneath me slips,And in the liquid cadence of her lipsI float, so near the Infinite, I seemLost in the glory of a white starred dream.When my sweet lady sings.
How terrible these nights are when aloneWith our scarred hearts, we sit in solitude,And some old sorrow, to the world unknown,Does suddenly with silent steps intrude.
After the guests departed, and the lightBurned dimly in my room, there came to me,As noiselessly as shadows of the night,The spectre of a woe that used to be.
Out of the gruesome darkness and the gloomI saw it peering; and, in still despair,I watched it gliding swift across the room,Until it came and stood beside my chair.
Why, need I tell thee what its shape or name?Thou hast thy secret hidden from the light:And be it sin or sorrow, woe or shame,Thou dost not like to meet it in the night.
And yet it comes. As certainly as death,And far more cruel since death ends all pain,On lonesome nights we feel its icy breath,And turn and face the thing we fancied slain.
With shrinking hearts, we view the ghastly shape;We look into its eyes with fear and dread,And know that we can never more escapeUntil the grave doth fold us with the dead.
On the swift maelstrom of the eddying worldWe hurl our woes, and think they are no more.But round and round by dizzy billows whirled,They reach out sinewy arms and swim to shore.
Only a line in the paper,That somebody read aloud,At a table of languid boarders,To the dull indifferent crowd.
Markets and deaths—and a marriage:And the reader read them all.How could he know a hope died then,And was wrapped in a funeral pall.
Only a line in the paper,Read in a casual way,But the glow went out of one young life,And left it cold and grey.
Colder than bleak December,Greyer than walls of rock,But the reader paused, and the room grew fullOf laughter and idle talk.
If one slipped off to her chamber,Why, who could dream or know,That one brief line in the paperHad sent her away with her woe?
Away into lonely sorrow,To bitter and blinding tears;Only a line in the paper,But it meant such desolate years.
Lean down, and kiss me, O my love, my own;The day is near when thy fond heart will miss me;And o’er my low green bed, with bitter moan,Thou wilt lean down, but cannot clasp or kiss me.
How strange it is, that I, so loving thee,And knowing we must part, perchance to-morrow,Do comfort find, thinking how great will beThy lonely desolation, and thy sorrow.
And stranger—sadder, O mine own other part,That I should grudge thee some surcease of weeping;Why do I not rejoice, that in thy heart,Sweet love will bloom again when I am sleeping?
Nay, make no promise. I would place no barUpon thy future, even wouldst thou let me.Thou hast, thou dost, well love me, like a man:And, like a man, in time thou wilt forget me.
Why should I care, so near the Infinite—Why should I care, that thou wilt cease to miss me?O God! these earthly ties are knit so tight—Quick, quick, lean lower, O my love, and kiss me!
So well I knew your habits and your ways,That like a picture painted on the skies,At the sweet closing of the summer days,You stand before my eyes.
I see you on the old verandah there,While slow the shadows of the twilight fall,I see the very carving on the chairYou tilt against the wall.
The West grows dim. The faithful evening starComes out and sheds its tender patient beam.I almost catch the scent of your cigar,As you sit there and dream.
But dream of what? I know your outward life—Your ways, your habits; know they have not changed.But has one thought of me survived the strifeSince we two were estranged?
I know not of the workings of your heart;And yet I sometimes make myself believeThat I perchance do hold some little partOf reveries at eve.
I think you could not wholly put awayThe memories of a past that held so much.As birds fly homeward at the close of day,A word, a kiss, a touch,
Must sometimes come and nestle in your breastAnd murmur to you of the long ago.Oh do they stir you with a vague unrest?What would I give to know!
Before I lost my love, he said to me:‘Sweetheart, I like deep azure tints on you.’But I, perverse as any girl will beWho has too many lovers, wore not blue.
He said, ‘I love to see my lady’s hairCoiled low like Clytie’s—with no wanton curl.’But I, like any silly, wilful girl,Said, ‘Donald likes it high,’ and wore it there.
He said, ‘I wish, love, when you sing to me,You would sing sweet, sad things—they suit your voice.’I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee—Saying, ‘This song, or that, is Harold’s choice.’
But now I wear no colour—none but blue.Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.He does not know it, but I strive to doWhatever in his eyes would make me fair.
I sing no songs but those he loved the best.(Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strainIs but the echo of the voice of pain,That sings so mournfully within my breast.)
I would not wear a ribbon or a curlFor Donald, if he died from my neglect—Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girlLearns true love’s worth, but—when her life is wrecked.
Beside a crib that holds a baby’s stocking,A tattered picture book, a broken toy,A sleeping mother dreams that she is rockingHer fair-haired cherub boy.
Upon the cradle’s side her light touch keeping,She gently rocks it, crooning low a song;And smiles to think her little one is sleeping,So peacefully and long.
Step light, breathe low, break not her rapturous dreaming,Wake not the sleeper from her trance of joy,For never more save in sweet slumber-seemingWill she watch o’er her boy.
God pity her when from her dream ElysianShe wakes to see the empty crib, and weep;Knowing her joy was but a sleeper’s vision,Tread lightly—let her sleep.
‘What do I hear at the window?Did some one call me?’ Nay,It was only the wind, my darling,Grieving the night away.Only the wind and the casementTalking as two friends may.
‘But now I hear some one speaking,Oh listen and you will hear.’It is only the night bird callingTo her mate in sudden fear.Only the dead leaves falling;The last lone leaves of the year.
‘But now there is some one coming,I hear a step on the stair.’Nay, nay, it is nothing, darling,Rest, and be free from care.I have just been out in the hallway,I am sure there is no one there.
Never a knock at the doorway,Never a step in the hall,Yet the King is coming, coming,—How lightly his footsteps fall.A sigh, and a straightening downward—And silence is over all.
When winds of March by the springtime biddenOver the great earth race and shout,Forth from my breast where it long hath hiddenMy same old sorrow comes creeping out.
I think each winter—its life is ended,For it makes no stir while the snows lie deep.I say to myself, ‘Its soul has blendedInto the past where it lay asleep.’
But as soon as the sun, like some fond lover,Smiles and kisses the earth’s round cheeks,This sad, sad sorrow throws off its cover,And out of the depths of its anguish, speaks.
In every bud by the wayside springingIt finds a sword for its half-healed wounds;In every note that the thrush is singingIt hears the saddest of minor sounds.
In the cup of gold that the sun is spillingIt finds, unsweetened, a drop of gall;It sees through the warp that the Spring is filling,The black threads twining in under it all.
Go back, O spring! till pain, forsakingThese haunts of sorrow, shall sink to rest.Go back! go back! for my heart is breaking,And the same old anguish hurts my breast.
Why do I love my sweetheart? WellI really never tried to tell.I love her mayhap for her smile,So innocent and free from guile.
Perhaps I love her for her mien,So calmly cheerful and serene;Or it may be her silken hair,First caught and tangled Cupid there.
And since I came to analyse;Her chiefest beauty is her eyes.Her mouth, too, that is Cupid’s bow—Perhaps that’s why I love her so.
And now I think of it, her voiceFirst made my rusty heart rejoiceAnd then her hand—’tis my beliefIt quite outvies the lily leaf.
Perhaps I love her for her waysThat blend in with the sunny days.Tush—to be brief and plain with you,I love herjust because I do.
Like a thorn in the flesh, like a fly in the mesh,Like a boat that is chained to shore,The wild unrest of the heart in my breastTortures me more and more.I wot not why, it should wail and cryLike a child that is lost at night,For it knew no grief, but has found relief,And it is not touched with blight.
It has had of pleasure full many a measure;It has thrilled with love’s red wine;It has hope and health, and youth’s rare wealth—Oh rich is this heart of mine.Yet it is not glad—it is wild and madLike a billow before it breaks;And its ceaseless pain is worse than vain,Since it knows not why it aches.
It longs to be, like the waves of the seaThat rise in their might and beatAnd dash and lunge, and hurry and plunge,And die at the grey rocks’ feet.It wearies of life and it sickens of strifeAnd yet it tires of rest.Oh! I know not why it should ache and cry—’Tis a troublesome heart at best.
Though not understood, I think it a goodAnd God-like discontent.It springs from the soul that longs for its goal—For the source from which it was sent.Then surge, O breast, with thy wild unrest—Cry, heart, like a child at night,Till the mystic shore of the EvermoreShall dawn on thy eager sight.
In the night I dreamed that you had died,And I thought you lay in your winding sheet;And I kneeled low by your coffin side,With my cheek on your heart that had ceased to beat.
And I thought as I looked on your form so still,A terrible woe, and an awful pain,Fierce as vultures that slay and kill,Tore at my bosom and maddened my brain.
And then it seemed that the chill of deathOver me there like a mantle fell,And I knew by my fluttering, failing breathThat the end was near, and all was well.
I woke from my dream in the black midnight—It was only a dream at worst or best—But I lay and thought till the dawn of light,Had the dream been true we had both been blest.
Better to kneel by your still dead form,With my cheek on your breast, and die that way,Than to live and battle with night and storm,And drift away from you day by day.
Better the anguish of death and loss,The sharp, quick pain, and the darkness, then,Than living on with this heavy crossTo bear about in the world of men.
Oh! give me the night, the dark, dark night,The night with never a star.When the stars are veiled and the moon has sailedBeyond the horizon’s bar.When thought grows weary of groping its wayThrough darkness dense and deep,And buries its head in oblivion’s bed,Wrapped warm in the mantle of sleep.
For I hate the night, the moon-white night,The night with a pallid face,When a million eyes from the watchful skiesPeers into each secret place.For thought awakes and the old wound aches,And Sorrow she cannot rest,But all night long walks to and froThrough the aisles of my troubled breast.
And Memory thinks it her royal hourWhen the heavens glitter and shine;And she fills the cup of the past well upWith a bitter and scalding wine.And she calls for a toast to the ghastly ghostOf a joy that used to be.And that terrible face in the dear old moonStares steadily down at me.So give me the night, the deep, dark night,The night with never a star,When the skies are veiled and the moon has sailedBeyond the horizon’s bar.
The year like a ship in the distanceComes over life’s mystical sea.We know not what change of existence’Tis bringing to you or to me.But we wave out the ship that is leavingAnd we welcome the ship coming in,Although it be loaded with grieving,With trouble, or losses, or sin.
Old year passing over the border,—And fading away from our view;All idleness, sloth, and disorder,All hatred and spite go with you.All bitterness, gloom, and repiningDown into your stronghold are cast.Sail out where the sunsets are shining,Sail out with them into the past.
Good reigns over all; and above us,As sure as the sun gives us light,Great forces watch over and love us,And lead us along through the night.Look up, and reach out, and believe them—Believe in your infinite worth.Do nothing to wound or to grieve them,And you shall find heaven on earth.
The body needs conflict and tussle,To render it forceful and grand;The soul, too, has sinew and muscle,Which sorrow alone can expand.Though troubles come faster and faster,Rise up, brace yourself for each blow;It is only Fate’s great fencing MasterInstructing your spirit to grow.
The new ship comes nearer and nearer,We know not what freight she may hold;Hope stands at the helm there to steer her,Our hearts are courageous and bold.Sail in with new joys and new sorrows,Sail in with new banners unfurled,Sail in with unwritten to-morrows,Sail in with new tasks for the world.
The day has been wild and stormy,And full of the wind’s unrest,And I sat down alone by the window,While the sunset dyed the West;And the holy rush of twilight,As the day went over the hill,Like the voice of a spirit seemed speakingAnd saying, ‘Peace be still.’
Then I thought with sudden longing,That it might be so with my woes;That the life so wild and restless,When it reached the eve’s repose,Might glow with a sudden glory,And be crowned with peace and rest;And the holy calm of twilightMight come to my troubled breast.
All of the pain and passionThat trouble my life’s long dayAs the winds go down at sunset,May suddenly pass away.And the wild and turbulent billows,That surge in my heart at will,Shall be hushed into calm and silenceBy the whisper, ‘Peace be still.’And my soul grew full of patience,And I said, ‘I can bear it all,Though the day be long and stormy,The twilight at last must fall.’
The tide of love swells in me with such force,It sweeps away all hate and all distrust.As eddying straws and particles of dustAre lost by some swift river in its course.
So much I love my friends, my life, my art,Each shadow flies; the light dispels the gloom.Love is so fair, I find I have no roomFor anything less worthy in my heart.
Love is a germ which we can cultivate—To grace and perfume sweeter than the rose,Or leave neglected while our heart soil growsRank with that vile and poison thistle, hate.
Love is a joyous thrush, that one can teachTo sing sweet lute-like songs which all may hear.Or we can silence him and tune the earTo caw of crows, or to the vulture’s screech.
Love is a feast; and if the guests divideWith all who pass, though thousands swell the van,There shall be food and drink for every man;The loaves and fishes will be multiplied.
Love is the guide. I look to heights aboveSo beautiful, so very far away;Yet I shall tread their sunlit peaks some day,Since close in mine I hold the hand of love.
Love is the law. But yield to its controlAnd thou shalt find all things work for the best,And in the calm, still heaven of thy breast,That God, Himself, sits talking with thy soul.