Books: Poems of Optimism
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox >> Poems of Optimism
Just for to-day we will put away sorrowing -
Just for to-day not a tear shall be shed;
Nor will we fear anything, or go borrowing
Pain from the future by profitless dread.
Thought shall go frolicking,
Pleasuring, treasuring everything bright -
Tasting the joy that is found just in rollicking
On through the light.
Just for to-day all the ills that need bettering
We will omit from our notebook of mind;
All that is good we will mark by red-lettering; -
Those things alone we are seeking to find.
Things to be sad over,
Pine over, whine over--pass them, I say!
Nothing is noted save what we are glad over -
This is Praise Day.
INTERLUDE
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;
The headstones thicken along the way;
And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger,
For those who walk with us day by day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;
The courage is lesser to do and dare;
And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower,
And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things in the world seem truer;
And the better things of earth seem best;
And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer,
And love is all, as our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
And let us speak softly in love's sweet tone;
For no man knows on the morrow whether
We two pass on--or but one alone.
THE LAND OF THE GONE-AWAY-SOULS
Oh! that is a beautiful land I wis,
The land of the Gone-Away Souls.
Yes, a lovelier region by far than this
(Though this is a world most fair),
The goodliest goal of all good goals,
Else why do our friends stay there?
I walk in a world that is sweet with friends,
And earth I have ever held dear;
Yes, love with duty and beauty blends,
To render the earth plane bright.
But faster and faster, year on year
My comrades hurry from sight.
They hurry away to the Over-There,
And few of them say Farewell.
Yes, they go away with a secret air
As if on a secret quest.
And they come not back to the earth to tell
Why that land seems the best.
Messages come from the mystic sphere,
But few know the code of that land;
Yes, many the message, but few who hear
In the din of the world below,
Or hearing the message, can understand
Those truths which we long to know.
But it must be the goal of all good goals,
And I think of it more and more,
Yes I think of that land of the Gone-Away-Souls
And its growing host of friends
Who will hail my bark when it touches shore
Where the last brief journey ends.
THE HARP'S SONG
All day, all day in a calm like death
The harp hung waiting the sea wind's breath.
When the western sky flushed red with shame
At the sun's bold kiss, the sea wind came.
Said the harp to the breeze, Oh, breathe as soft
As the ring-dove cooes from its nest aloft.
I am full of a song that mothers croon
When their wee ones tire of their play at noon.
Though a harp may feel 'tis a silent thing
Till the breeze arises and bids it sing.
Said the wind to the harp, Nay, sing for me
The wail of the dead that are lost at sea.
I caught their cry as I came along,
And I hurried to find you and teach you the song.
Oh, the heart is the harp, and love is the breeze,
And the song is ever what love may please.
THE PENDULUM
[In Edgar Allan Poe's story, 'The Pit and the Pendulum,' the victim
is bound hand and foot, face upturned to a huge, knife-edged pendulum
which swings back and forth across his body, the blade dropping
closer to his heart at each swing.]
Bound hand and foot in the pit I lie,
And the wall about me is strong and high;
Stronger and higher it grows each day,
With maximum labour and minimum pay;
And there is no ladder whereon to climb
To a fairer world and a brighter time.
There is no ladder, there is no rope,
But the devil of greed has given a hope.
He swings before me the pendulum--Vice;
I know its purpose and know its price,
And the world's good people all know it, too,
And much they chatter and little they do.
I have sent up my cry to the hosts of men
Over and over and over again:
But should I cry once to the devil, ah, he
Would hurry to answer and set me free.
For Virtue to Virtue must ever call thrice,
But once brings an answer when Virtue calls Vice.
Bound hand and foot in the pit I lie
While the pendulum swings and the days go by.
AN OLD-FASHIONED TYPE
For 'Mabel Brown' I never cared
(My rightful name by birth),
But when the name of Smith I shared,
I seemed to own the earth,
(I wrote it without 'y' or 'e' -
Plain 'Mrs. Jack Smith' suited me.)
My happiest hour, as I look back
On times of great content,
Was when folks called me 'Mrs. Jack,'
Though 'Mrs. Smith' was meant.
It was the pleasure of my life
To hear them say: 'That's Jack Smith's wife.'
One day I joined a club. They said
That I must speak or write.
So I did both. I wrote and read
A speech one fateful night.
It made a hit, but proved, alack,
A death blow to poor 'Mrs. Jack.'
As 'Mrs. Mabel Smith' I'm known
Throughout my town and State;
My heart feels widowed and alone;
The case is intricate.
Though darling Jack is mine, the same,
I am divorced somehow in name.
Just 'Mabel Smith' I can endure;
It leaves the world in doubt;
But 'Mrs.' makes the marriage sure,
Yet leaves the husband out.
It sounds like Reno, or the tomb,
And always fills me full of gloom.
They say the honours are all mine;
Well, I would trade the pack
For one sweet year in which to shine
Again as 'Mrs. Jack.'
That gave to life a core, a pith,
Not found by 'Mrs. Mabel Smith.'
For one suggests the chosen mate,
And all the joy love brings;
And one suggests a delegate
To federated things.
I'm built upon the old-time plan -
I like to supplement a man.
If on each point of glory's star
My name shone like a pearl,
I'd feel a pleasure greater far
In being 'Jack Smith's girl.'
It is ridiculous, I know,
But then, you see, I'm fashioned so.
THE SWORD
Amidst applauding cheers I won a prize.
A cynic watched me, with ironic eyes;
An open foe, in open hatred, sneered;
I cared for neither. Then my friend appeared.
Eager, I listened for his glad 'Well done.'
But sudden shadow seemed to shroud my sun.
He praised me: yet each slow, unwilling word
Forced from its sheath base Envy's hidden sword,
Two-edged, it wounded me; but, worst of all,
It thrust my friend down from his pedestal,
And showed him as he was--so small, so small.
LOVE AND THE SEASONS
SPRING
A sudden softness in the wind;
A glint of song, a-wing;
A fragrant sound that trails behind,
And joy in everything.
A sudden flush upon the cheek,
The teardrop quick to start;
A hope too delicate to speak,
And heaven within the heart.
SUMMER
A riotous dawn and the sea's great wonder;
The red, red heart of a rose uncurled;
And beauty tearing her veil asunder,
In sight of a swooning world.
A call of the soul, and the senses blended;
The Springtime lost in the glow of the sun,
And two lives rushing, as God intended,
To meet and mingle as one.
AUTUMN
The world is out in gala dress;
And yet it is not gay.
Its splendour hides a loneliness
For something gone away.
(Laughter and music on the air;
A shower of rice and bloom.
Smiles for the fond departing pair -
And then the empty room.)
WINTER
Two trees swayed in the winter wind; and dreamed
The snowflakes falling about them were bees
Singing among the leaves. And they were glad,
Knowing the dream would soon come true.
Beside the hearth an aged couple rocked,
And dozed; and dreamed the friends long passed from sight
Were with them once again. They woke and smiled,
Knowing the dream would soon come true.
A NAUGHTY LITTLE COMET
There was once a little comet who lived near the Milky Way!
She loved to wander out at night and jump about and play.
The mother of the comet was a very good old star -
She used to scold her reckless child for venturing out too far;
She told her of the ogre, Sun, who loved on stars to sup,
And who asked no better pastimes than gobbling comets up.
But instead of growing cautious and of showing proper fear,
The foolish little comet edged up near, and near, and near.
She switched her saucy tail along right where the Sun could see,
And flirted with old Mars and was bold as bold could be.
She laughed to scorn the quiet stars, who never frisked about;
She said there was no fun in life unless you ventured out.
She liked to make the planets stare, and wished no better mirth
Than just to see the telescopes aimed at her from the Earth.
She wondered how so many stars could mope through nights and days,
And let the sickly faced old moon get all the love and praise.
And as she talked and tossed her head and switched her shining trail,
The staid old mother star grew sad, her cheek grew wan and pale.
For she had lived there in the skies a million years or more,
And she had heard gay comets talk in just this way before.
And by and by there came an end to this gay comet's fun -
She went a tiny bit too far--and vanished in the Sun!
No more she swings her shining trail before the whole world's sight,
But quiet stars she laughed to scorn are twinkling every night.
THE LAST DANCE
WHEN LOVE FOR HIS MAKER AWOKE IN MAN, THE DANCE BEGAN
The wave of the ocean, the leaf of the wood,
In the rhythm of motion proclaim life is good.
The stars are all swinging to metres and rhyme,
The planets are singing while suns mark the time.
The moonbeams and rivers float off in a trance,
The Universe quivers--on, on with the dance!
Our partners we pick from the best of the throng
In the ballroom of Life and go lilting along;
We follow our fancy, and choose as we will,
For waltz or for tango or merry quadrille;
But ever one partner is waiting us all
At the end of the programme, to finish the ball.
Unasked, and unwelcome, he comes without leave
And calls when he chooses, 'My dance, I believe?'
And none may refuse him, and none may say no;
When he beckons the dancer, the dancer must go.
You may hate him, and shun him; and yet in life's ball
For the one who lives well 'tis the best dance of all.
A VAGABOND MIND
Since early this morning the world has seemed surging
With unworded rhythm, and rhyme without thought.
It may be the Muses take this way of urging
The patience and pains by which poems are wrought.
It may be some singer who passed into glory,
With songs all unfinished, is lingering near
And trying to tell me the rest of the story,
Which I am too dull of perception to hear.
I hear not, I see not; but feel the sweet swinging
And swaying of metre, in sunlight and shade,
The still arch of Space with such music is ringing
As never an audible orchestra made.
The moments glide by me, and each one is dancing;
Aquiver with life is each leaf on the tree,
And out on the ocean is movement entrancing,
As billow with billow goes racing with glee.
With never a thought that is worthy the saying,
And never a theme to be put into song,
Since early this morning my mind has been straying,
A vagabond thing, with a vagabond throng,
With gay, idle moments, and waves of the ocean,
With winds and with sunbeams, and tree-tops and birds,
It has lilted along in the joy of mere motion,
To songs without music and verse without words.
MY FLOWER ROOM
My Flower Room is such a little place,
Scarce twenty feet by nine; yet in that space
I have met God; yea, many a radiant hour
Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing-Cause,
About His laws.
And He has shown me, in each vine and flower
Such miracles of power
That day by day this Flower Room of mine
Has come to be a shrine.
Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere
Pale, tender shoots appear
Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.
One speeds to crimson bloom;
One slowly creeps to unassuming grace;
One climbs, one trails;
One drinks the light and moisture;
One exhales.
Up through the earth together, stem by stem
Two plants push swiftly in a floral race;
Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem;
And one gives only fragrance
In a seed
So small it scarce is felt within the hand.
Lie hidden such delights
Of scents and sights,
When by the elements of Nature freed,
As Paradise must have at its command.
From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things
What gorgeous beauty springs!
Such infinite variety appears
A hundred artists in a hundred years
Could never copy from the floral world
The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.
Nor could the most colossal mind of man
Create one little seed of plant or vine
Without assistance from the First Great Plan;
Without the aid divine.
Who but a God
Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold,
And fashion in earth's mould,
A multitude of blooms to deck one sod?
Who but a God!
Not one man knows
Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose
Or how its tints were blent;
Or why the white Camelia without scent
Up through the same soil grows;
Or how the daisy and the violet
And blades of grass first on wild meadows met.
Not one, not one man knows;
The wisest but SUPPOSE.
This Flower Room of mine
Has come to be a shrine;
And I go hence
Each day with larger faith and reverence.
MY FAITH
My faith is rooted in no written creed;
And there are those who call me heretic;
Yet year on year, though I be well or sick
Or opulent, or in the slough of need,
If, light of foot, fair Life trips by me pleasuring,
Or, by the rule of pain, old Time stands measuring
The dull, drab moments--still ascends my cry:
'God reigns on high!
He doeth all things well!'
Not much I prize, or one, or any brand
Of theologic lore; nor think too well
Of generally accepted heaven and hell.
But faith and knowledge build at Love's command
A beauteous heaven; a heaven of thought all clarified
Of hate and fear and doubt; a heaven of rarefied
And perfect trust; and from the heaven I cry:
'God reigns on high!
Whatever is, is best.'
My faith refuses to accept the 'fall'!
It sees man ever as a child of God,
Growing in wisdom as new realms are trod,
Until the Christ in him is One with All.
From this full consciousness my faith is borrowing
Light to illuminate Life's darkest sorrowing,
Whatever woes assail me still I cry:
'God reigns on high!
He doeth all things well.'
My faith finds prayer the language of the heart,
Which gives us converse with the host unseen;
And those who linger in the vales between
The Here and Yonder, in these prayers take part.
My dead come near, and say: 'Death means not perishing;
Cherish us in your thoughts, for by that cherishing
Shall severed links be welded by and by.'
'God reigns on high!
Whatever is, is best.'
ARROW AND BOW
It is easy to stand in the pulpit, or in the closet to kneel,
And say: 'God do this; God do that! -
Make the world better; relieve the sorrows of man; for the sake of
Thy Son,
Oh, forgive all sin!' Then, having planned out God's work, to feel
Our duty is done.
It is easy to be religious this way -
Easy to pray.
It is harder to stand on the highway, or walk in the crowded mart;
And say: 'I am He. I am He.
'Mine the world-burden; mine the sorrows of men; mine the Christ-work
'To forgive my brother's sin,' and then to live the Christ-part and
never to shirk.
It is hard for you and me
To be religious this way,
Day after day.
But God is no longer in heaven; we drove Him out with our prayers,
Drove Him out with our sermons and creeds, and our endless plaints
and despairs.
He came down over the borders, and Christ, too, came along;
They are looking the whole world over to see just what is wrong.
God has grown weary of hearing His praises sung on earth;
And Jesus is weary of hearing the story about His birth;
And the way to win Their favour, that is surer than any other,
Is to join in a song of Brotherhood and praises of one another.
No; God is no longer in heaven; He has come down on earth to see
That nothing is wrong with the world He made; THE WRONG IS IN YOU AND
ME.
He meant the earth for a garden-spot, where mill and factory stand;
Childhood, he meant for growing-time--but look at the toiling band!
Woman was meant for mother and mate--now look at the slaves of lust.
And the good folks shake their heads and say, 'We must pray to God
and trust.'
God has a billion books of our prayers unopened upon his shelves,
For the things we are begging Him to do, He wants us to do ourselves.
Jehovah, Jesus, and each soul in space
Are one and undividable. Until
We see God shining in each neighbour's face
And find Him in ourselves and hail Him there,
What use is prayer?
Let us be still.
How can we love the whole and not each part?
How worship God, and harbour in the heart
Hate of God's members--for all men are that.
Too long our souls have sat,
Like poor blind beggars at the door of God.
He never made a beggar--we are kings!
Let us rise up, for it is time we trod
The mountain-tops; time that we did the things
We have so long asked God to do.
He waits for you
To look deep in your brother's eyes and see
The God within;
To hear you say 'Lo, thou art He; Lo, thou art He.'
This is the only way to end all sin,
The difficult, one way.
A prayer without a deed is an arrow without a bow-string;
A deed without a prayer is a bow-string without an arrow.
The heart of a man should be like a quiver full of arrows,
And the hand of a man should be like a strong bow strung for action.
The heart of a man should keep his arrows ever ascending,
And the hand and the mind of a man should keep at a work unending.
IF WE SHOULD MEET HIM
Now what were the words of Jesus,
And what would He pause and say,
If we were to meet in home or street
The Lord of the world to-day?
Oh, I think He would pause and say,
'Go on with your chosen labour;
Speak only good of your neighbour;
Widen your farms, and lay down your arms,
Or dig up the soil with each sabre.'
Now what were the answer of Jesus
If we should ask for a creed
To carry us straight through the wonderful gate
When soul from body is freed?
Oh, I think He would give us this creed:
'Praise God, whatever betide you;
Cast joy on the lives beside you;
Better the earth, by growing in worth,
With love as the law to guide you.'
Now what were the answer of Jesus
If we should ask Him to tell
Of the last great goal of the homing soul,
Where each of us hopes to dwell.
Oh, I think it is this He would tell:
'The soul is the builder--then wake it;
The mind is the kingdom--then take it;
And thought upon thought let Eden be wrought,
For heaven will be what you make it.'
FAITH
Let a valiant Faith cross swords with Death,
And Death is certain to fall;
For the dead arise with joy in their eyes -
They were not dead at all.
If this were only a world of chance,
Then faith, with its strong white spark
Could burn through the sod and fashion a God,
And set Him to shine in the dark.
So in troublesome days, and in shadowy ways,
In the dire and difficult time,
We must cling, we must cling to our Faith, and bring
Our courage to heights sublime.
It is not a matter of hugging a creed
That will lift us up to the light,
But in keeping our trust that Love is just,
And that whatever is, is right.
When the hopes of this world into chaos are hurled,
And the devil seems running the earth,
When the bad folks stay and the good pass away,
And greed fares better than worth,
Oh, that is the hour to trust in the Power
That will straighten the tangle out;
For death and sorrow are little things,
But a terrible thing is doubt.
THE SECRET OF PRAYER
For he who climbs to say his prayer
Meets half way the descending Grace.
ELSA BARKER, in British Review.
This is the secret of all prayers
That in God's sight have worth,
They must be uttered from the stairs
That wind away from earth;
And he who mounts to speak the word,
He shall be heard. He shall be heard.
And he who will not leave himself,
But stays down with his cares,
Or with his thoughts of pride and pelf,
Though loud and long his prayers,
Beyond earth's dome of arching skies
They shall not rise. They shall not rise.
Oh, ye who seek for strength and power
Seek first some quiet spot,
And fashion through a silent hour
Your stairway, thought by thought;
Then climb, and pray to God on high:
He shall reply. He shall reply.
THE ANSWER
Up to the gates of gleaming Pearl,
There came the spirit of a girl,
And to the white-robed Guard she said:
'Dear Angel, am I truly dead?
Just yonder, lying on my bed,
I heard them say it; and they wept.
And after that, methinks I slept.
Then when I woke, I saw your face,
And suddenly was in this place.
It seems a pleasant place to be,
Yet earth was fair enough to me.
What is there here, to do, or see?
Will I see God, dear Angel, say?
And is He very far away?'
The Angel said, 'You are in truth
What men call dead. That word to youth
Is full of terror; but it means
Only a change of tasks, and scenes.
You have been brought to us because
Of certain ancient karmic laws
Set into motion aeons gone.
By us you will be guided on
From plane to plane, and sphere to sphere,
Until your tasks are finished here.
Then back to earth, the home of man,
To work again another span.'
'But, Angel, when will I see God?'
'After the final path is trod;
After you no more long, or crave,
To see, or hear, or own, or have
Aught beside--HIM. Then shall His face
Reveal itself to you in space.
And you shall find yourself made one
With that Great Sun, behind the sun.
Child, go thy way inside the gate,
Where many eager loved ones wait.
Death is but larger life begun.'
A VISION
My soul beheld a vision of the Master:
Methought He stood with grieved and questioning eyes,
Where Freedom drove its chariot to disaster
And toilers heard, unheeding, toilers' cries.
Where man withheld God's bounties from his neighbour,
And fertile fields were sterilised by greed;
Where Labour's hand was lifted against labour,
And suffering serfs to despots turned when freed.
Majestic rose tall steeple after steeple;
Imperious bells called worshippers to prayer;
But as they passed, the faces of the people
Were marred by envy, anger and despair.
'Christ the Redeemer of the world has risen,
Peace and good will,' so rang the major strain;
But forth from sweat-shops, tenement and prison
Wailed minor protests, redolent with pain.
Methought about the Master, all unseeing,
Fought desperate hosts of striking clan with clan,
Their primal purpose, meant for labour's freeing,
Sunk in vindictive hate of man for man.
Pretentious Wealth, in unearned robes of beauty,
Flung Want a pittance from her bulging purse,
While ill-paid Toil went on dull rounds of duty,
Hell in her heart, and on her lips a curse.
Then spoke the Christ (so wondrous was my vision)
(Deep, deep, His voice, with sorrow's cadence fraught):
'This world to-day would be a realm elysian
Had my disciples lived the love I taught.
Un-Christlike is the Christian creed men fashion
Who kneel to worship, and who rise to slay.
Profane pretenders of my holy Passion,
Ye nail Me newly to the cross each day.'
THE SECOND COMING
How will Christ come back again,
How will He be seen, and where,
Where His chosen way?
Will He come in dead of night,
Shining in His robes of light,
Or at dawn of day?
Will it be at Christmas time,
When the bells are all achime,
That He is re-born?
Or will He return and bring
Wide and wondrous wakening
On some Easter morn?
When will this sad world rejoice,
Listening to that golden voice
Speaking unto men?
Lives there one who yet shall cry
Loud to startled passers-by -
'Christ has come again?'
List the answer--Christ is here!
Seek and you shall find him near -
Dwelling on the earth.
By the world's awakened thought,
This great miracle is wrought,
This the second birth.
While you wonder where and now
Christ shall come--behold him NOW,
Patient, loving, meek.
Looking from your neighbour's eyes,
Or in humble toiling guise -
Lo! the Christ you seek.
Look for him in human hearts,
In the shops, and in the marts,
And beside your hearth.
Search and speak the watchword Love,
And the Christ shall rise and prove
He has come to earth.
Sorrowful ofttimes is He
That we have not eyes to see,
Have not ears to hear,
As we call to Him afar,
Out beyond some distant star,
While He stands so near.
Seek Him, seek Him, where He dwells,
Chime the voices of the bells
On the Christmas air.
Christ has come to earth again,
He is in the hearts of men,
Seek and find him there.