Books: Poems of Sentiment
E >>
Ella Wheeler Wilcox >> Poems of Sentiment
"For erring woman death can bring
No pain so keen as memory's sting.
Good-night, good-bye. God bless you, dear,
And give you love, and joy, and cheer!
But sometimes, in the dark night, say
A prayer for one who went astray,
And found no pathway back, and died
For love of you--a suicide."
When morn his glorious pinions spread,
They found the erring woman, dead.
PART II
She woke as one wakes from a deep
And dreamless, yet exhausting, sleep.
A strange confusion filled her mind,
And sorrows vague and undefined,
Like half-remembered faces pressed
To memory's window, in her breast,
Gazed at her with reproachful eyes.
She felt a sudden, dazed surprise,
Commingled with a sense of dread,
"I did but sleep--I am not dead,
"The potion and the purpose failed,
And I still live," she wildly wailed.
"Nay, thou art dead, rash suicide,"
A sad voice spake: and at her side
She saw a weird and shadowy crowd
With anguished lips, and shoulders bowed,
And orbs that seemed the wells of woe.
She shrieked and veiled her eyes. "No, no!
"I am not dead! I ache with life.
An earthly passion's hopeless strife
"Still tortures me." "Yet thou art dead,"
The voice with sad insistence said.
"But love and sorrow and regret
All die with death. _I_ feel them yet."
"God bade thee live, and only He
Can say when thou shalt cease to be."
"But I was sin-sick, sad, alone -
I thought by death I could atone,
"And died that Christ might show me how."
"Christ bore His burden, why not thou?"
"Oh! lead me to His holy feet
And let my penance be complete."
"What! thinkest thou to find that path -
Thou who hast tempted Heaven's wrath
"By thy rash deed? Nay, nay, not so,
'Tis but perfected spirits go
"To that supreme and final goal.
A self-sought death delays the soul.
"With yonder shuddering, woeful throng
Of suicides thy ways belong.
"Close to the earth a shadowy band,
Unseen, but seeing all, they stand
"Until their natural time to die,
As God intended, shall draw nigh.
"On earth, repentant, sick of sin,
A ministering angel thou hadst been
"Whose patient toil and deeds divine
Had rescued souls as sad as thine,
"Each deed a firm ascending stair
To lead beyond thy great despair.
"But now it is thy mournful fate
To linger here and meditate
"On thy dark past--to stand so near
The earthly plane that thou canst hear
"Thy lover's voice, while old desire
Shall burn within thee like a fire,
"And grief shall root thee to the spot
To find how soon thou art forgot.
"But since thou hast endured the woes
That only fragile woman knows,
"And loved as only woman can,
Thou shalt not suffer all that man
"Must suffer when he interferes
With God's great law. In death's dim spheres
"That justice waits, which men refuse.
Thy sex shall in some part excuse
"Thy desperate deed. When God shall send
A second death to be thy friend,
"Thou need'st not fear a darker fate -
Go forth with yonder throng, and wait."
A SONG OF REPUBLICS
Fair Freedom's ship, too long adrift -
Of every wind the sport -
Now rigged and manned, her course well planned,
Sails proudly out of port;
And fluttering gaily from the mast
This motto is unfurled,
Let all men heed its truth who read:
"Republics rule the World!"
The universe is high as God!
Good is the final goal;
The world revolves and man evolves
A purpose and a soul.
No church can bind, no crown forbid
Thought's mighty upward course -
Let kings give way before its sway,
For God inspires its force.
The hero of a vanished age
Was one who bathed in gore;
Who best could fight was noblest knight
In savage days of yore;
Now warrior chiefs are out of date,
The times have changed. To-day
We call men great who arbitrate
And keep war's hounds at bay.
The world no longer looks to priest
Or prince to know its needs;
Earth's human throng has grown too strong
To rule with courts and creeds.
We want no kings but kings of toil -
No crowns but crowns of deeds;
Not royal birth but sterling worth
Must mark the man who leads.
Proud monarchies are out of step
With modern thought to-day,
For Brotherhood is understood,
And thrones may pass away.
Men dare to think. Concerted thought
Contains more power than swords:
The force that binds united minds
Defeats mere savage hordes.
Man needs no arbitrary hand
To keep him in control;
He feels the power grow hour by hour
Of his expanding soul:
In God's stupendous scheme of worlds
He knows he has a place;
He is no slave to cringe, and crave
Some worthless monarch's grace.
As ocean billows undermine
The haughty shores each hour,
Time's sea has brought its waves of thought
To crumble thrones of power;
And one by one shall kingdoms fall
Like leaves before the blast,
As man with man combines to plan
Republics formed to last.
Columbia baulked a tyrant king,
And built upon a rock,
In Freedom's name, a shrine whose fame
Outlived the century's shock.
Now France within our port has set
Her symbol of re-birth;
Her lifted hand tells sea and land
Republics light the earth.
One mighty church for all the world
Would make men far more kind;
One government would bring content
To many a restless mind.
Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail
The wide sea's breadth and length.
'Till worlds unite to make the might
Of "One Republic's" strength.
MEMORIAL DAY--1892
The quiet graves of our country's braves
Through thirty Junes and Decembers
Have solemnly lain under sun and rain,
And yet the Nation remembers.
The marching of feet and the flags on the street
Told once again this morning,
In the voice of the drum how the day had come
For those lowly beds' adorning.
Then swiftly back on Time's worn track
His three decades seemed driven,
And with startled eyes I saw arise,
From graves by fancy riven,
The Gray and Blue in a grand review.
Oh! vast were the hosts they numbered,
As they wheeled and swayed in a dress parade
O'er the graves where they long had slumbered.
The colours were not, as when they fought,
Ranked one against the other,
But a mingled hue of gray and blue,
As brother marching with brother.
And a blue flower lay on each coat of gray,
Like forget-me-nots on a boulder;
And the gray moss lace in its Southern grace
Was knotted on each blue shoulder.
The vision fled; but I think our dead,
If they could come back with the living,
Would clasp warm hands o'er hostile lands,
Forgetting old wrongs and forgiving.
'Mong the blossoms of Spring that you gather and bring
To graves that though lowly are royal,
Let the blue flower prevail, though modest and pale,
Since it speaks of the hue that was loyal.
But tie each bouquet with a ribbon of gray
And lay it on memory's altar,
For the dead who fought for the cause they thought
Was right, and who did not falter.
WHEN BABY SOULS SAIL OUT
When from our mortal vision
Grown men and women go
To sail strange fields Elysian
And know what spirits know,
I think of them as tourists,
In some sun-gilded clime,
'Mong happy sights and dear delights
We all shall find, in time.
But when a child goes yonder
And leaves its mother here,
Its little feet must wander,
It seems to me, in fear.
What paths of Eden beauty,
What scenes of peace and rest,
Can bring content to one who went
Forth from a mother's breast?
In palace gardens, lonely,
A little child will roam
And weep for pleasures only
Found in its humble home.
It is not won by splendour,
Nor bought by costly toys;
To hide from harm on mother's arm
Makes all its sum of joys.
It must be when the baby
Goes journeying off alone,
Some angel (Mary, may be)
Adopts it for her own.
Yet when a child is taken
Whose mother stays below,
With weeping eyes, through Paradise,
I seem to see it go.
With troops of angels trying
To drive away its fear,
I seem to hear it crying,
"I want my mamma here."
I do not court the fancy,
It is not based on doubt,
It is a thought that comes unsought
When baby souls sail out.
TO ANOTHER WOMAN'S BABY
I list your prattle, baby boy,
And hear your pattering feet
With feelings more of pain than joy
And thoughts of bitter-sweet.
While touching your soft hands in play
Such passionate longings rise
For my wee boy who strayed away
So soon to Paradise.
You win me with your infant art;
But when our play is o'er,
The empty cradle in my heart
Seems lonelier than before.
Sweet baby boy, you do not guess
How oft mine eyes are dim,
Or that my lingering caress
Is sometimes meant for HIM.
DIAMONDS
The tears of fallen women turned to ice
By man's cold pity for repentant vice.
RUBIES
The crimson life-drops from a virgin heart
Pierced to the core by Cupid's fatal dart.
SAPPHIRES
Lost rays of light that wandered off alone
And down through space were hurled
From that great sapphire sun beyond our own
Pale, puny little world.
TURQUOISE
A baby went to heaven while it slept,
And, waking, missed its mother's arms, and wept.
Those angel tear-drops, falling earthward through
God's azure skies, into the turquoise grew.
REFORM
The time has come when men with hearts and brains
Must rise and take the misdirected reins
Of government; too long left in the hands
Of aliens and of lackeys. He who stands
And sees the mighty vehicle of State
Hauled through the mire to some ignoble fate
And makes not such bold protest as he can,
Is no American,
A MINOR CHORD
I heard a strain of music in the street -
A wandering waif of sound. And then straightway
A nameless desolation filled the day.
The great green earth that had been fair and sweet,
Seemed but a tomb; the life I thought replete
With joy, grew lonely for a vanished May.
Forgotten sorrows resurrected lay
Like bleaching skeletons about my feet.
Above me stretched the silent, suffering sky,
Dumb with vast anguish for departed suns
That brutal Time to nothingness has hurled.
The daylight was as sad as smiles that lie
Upon the wistful, unkissed mouths of nuns,
And I stood prisoned in an awful world.
DEATH'S PROTEST
Why dost thou shrink from my approach, O Man?
Why dost thou ever flee in fear, and cling
To my false rival, Life? I do but bring
Thee rest and calm. Then wherefore dost thou ban
And curse me? Since the forming of God's plan
I have not hurt or harmed a mortal thing,
I have bestowed sweet balm for every sting,
And peace eternal for earth's stormy span.
The wild mad prayers for comfort sent in vain
To knock at the indifferent heart of Life,
I, Death, have answered. Knowest thou not 'tis he,
My cruel rival, who sends all thy pain
And wears the soul out in unending strife?
Why dost thou hold to him, then, spurning me?
SEPTEMBER
My life's long radiant Summer halts at last,
And lo! beside my path way I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.
WAIL OF AN OLD-TIMER
Each new invention doubles our worries an' our troubles,
These scientific fellows are spoilin' of our land;
With motor, wire, an' cable, now'-days we're scarcely able
To walk or ride in peace o' mind, an' 'tisn't safe to stand.
It fairly makes me crazy to see how tarnal lazy
The risin' generation grows--an' science is to blame.
With telephones for talkin', an' messengers for walkin',
Our young men sit an' loaf an' smoke, without a blush o' shame.
An' then they wer'n't contented until some one invented
A sort o' jerky tape-line clock, to help on wasteful ways.
An' that infernal ticker spends money fur 'em quicker
Than any neighbourhood o' men in good old bygone days.
The risin' generation is bent so on creation,
Folks haven't time to talk or sing or cry or even laugh.
But if you take the notion to want some such emotion,
They've got it all on tap fur you, right in the phonograph.
But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature
Of artificial weather, I think we're nearly through.
For when we once go strainin' to keep it dry or rainin'
To suit the general public, 'twill bust the world in two,
WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE
Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust;
Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;
Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished with nothing to show.
"I loathe the present," said Was, with a groan;
"I live in pleasures that I HAVE known."
The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty Was,
And gazed far off into misty space
With a wrapt expression upon her face.
"Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,
Such glory, such honour," said Yet-to-be.
"No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been,
Of such successes as I shall win.
"The past, the present--why, what are they?
I live for the joy of a future day."
Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress,
Spoke up with a laugh, "I must confess
"I find to-day so pleasant," she said,
"I never look back, and seldom ahead.
"Whatever has been, is a finished sum;
Whatever will be--why, let it come.
"To-day is mine. And so, you see,
I have the past and the yet-to-be;
"For to-day is the future of yesterday,
And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,
"And I think the secret of pleasure is this.
And this alone," said practical Is.
MISTAKES
God sent us here to make mistakes,
To strive, to fail, to re-begin,
To taste the tempting fruit of sin,
And find what bitter food it makes,
To miss the path, to go astray,
To wander blindly in the night;
But, searching, praying for the light,
Until at last we find the way.
And looking back along the past,
We know we needed all the strain
Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
To make us value peace, at last.
Who fails, finds later triumph sweet;
Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
And knows the place to cry "Beware"
To other unaccustomed feet.
Through strife the slumbering soul awakes,
We learn on error's troubled route
The truths we could not prize without
The sorrow of our sad mistakes.
DUAL
You say that your nature is double; that life
Seems more and more intricate, complex, and dual,
Because in your bosom there wages the strife
'Twixt an angel of light and a beast that is cruel -
An angel who whispers your spirit has wings,
And a beast who would chain you to temporal things.
I listen with interest to all you have told,
And now let me give you my view of your trouble:
You are to be envied, not pitied; I hold
THAT EVERY STRONG NATURE IS ALWAYS MADE DOUBLE.
The beast has his purpose; he need not be slain:
He should serve the good angel in harness and chain.
The body that never knows carnal desires,
The heart that to passion is always a stranger,
Is merely a furnace with unlighted fires;
It sends forth no warmth while it threatens no danger.
But who wants to shiver in cold safety there?
TOUCH FLAME TO THE FUEL! then watch it with care.
Those wild, fierce emotions that trouble your soul
Are sparks from the great source of passion and power;
Throne reason above them, and give it control,
And turn into blessing this dangerous dower.
By lightnings unguided destruction is hurled,
But chained and directed they gladden the world.
THE ALL-CREATIVE SPARK
Pain can go guised as joy, dross pass for gold,
Vulgarity can masquerade as wit,
Or spite wear friendship's garments; but I hold
That passionate feeling has no counterfeit.
Chief jewel from Jove's crown 'twas sent men, lent
For inspiration and for sacrament.
Jove never could have made the Universe
Had he not glowed with passion's sacred fire;
Though man oft turns the blessing to a curse,
And burns himself on his own funeral pyre,
Though scarred the soul be where its light burns bright,
Yet where it is not, neither is there might.
Yea, it was set in Jove's resplendent crown
When he created worlds; that done, why, hence,
He cast the priceless, awful jewel down
To be man's punishment and recompense.
And that is how he sees and hears our tears
Unmoved and calm from the eternal spheres.
But sometimes, since he parted with all passion,
In trifling mood, to pass the time away,
He has created men in that same fashion,
And many women (jesting as gods may),
Who have no souls to be inspired or fired,
Mere sport of idle gods who have grown tired.
And these poor puppets, gazing in the dark
At their own shadows, think the world no higher;
And when they see the all-creative spark
In other souls, they straightway cry out, "Fire!"
And shriek, and rave, till their dissent is spent,
While listening gods laugh loud in merriment.
BE NOT CONTENT
Be not content--contentment means inaction;
The growing soul aches on its upward quest;
Satiety is twin to satisfaction;
All great achievements spring from life's unrest.
The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding,
Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower
Were not an inborn restlessness abiding
In seed and germ, to stir them with its power.
Were man contented with his lot forever,
He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled,
And the vast wonder of our shores had never
Dawned on the gaze of an admiring world.
Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented.
There is a healthful restlessness of soul
By which a mighty purpose is augmented
In urging men to reach a higher goal.
So when the restless impulse rises, driving
Your calm content before it, do not grieve;
It is the upward reaching of the spirit
Of the God in you to achieve--achieve.
ACTION
For ever stars are winging
Their swift and endless race;
For ever suns are swinging
Their mighty globes through space.
Since by his law required
To join God's spheres inspired,
The earth has never tired,
But whirled and whirled and whirled.
For ever streams are flowing,
For ever seeds are growing,
Alway is Nature showing
That Action rules the world.
And since by God requested
To BE, the glorious light
Has never paused or rested,
But travelled day and night.
Yet pigmy man, unseeing
The purpose of his being,
Demands escape and freeing
From universal force.
But law is law for ever,
And like a mighty lever
It thrusts him tow'rd endeavour,
And speeds him on his course.
TWO ROSES
A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot's royal splendour,
And both in my lady's boudoir lay.
Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,
"I wonder why you are called a rose?
Your leaves will fade in a single morning;
No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.
"Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway,
You have no depths of fragrant bloom;
And what could you learn in a rustic byway
To fit you to lie in my lady's room?
"If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,
What have you to offer for such a place,
Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,
Ripe with colour and rich with grace?"
Said the sweet wild-rose, "Despite your dower
Of finer breeding and deeper hue,
Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower,
It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.
"For small account is your hot-house glory
Beside the knowledge that came to me
When I heard by the wayside love's old story
And felt the kiss of the amorous bee."
SATIETY
To yearn for what we have not had, to sit
With hungry eyes glued on the Future's gate,
Why, that is heaven compared to having it
With all the power gone to appreciate.
Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait,
And die at last with unappeased desire,
Than live to be the jest of such a fate,
For that is my conception of hell-fire.
A SOLAR ECLIPSE
In that great journey of the stars through space
About the mighty, all-directing Sun,
The pallid, faithful Moon has been the one
Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,
Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race
Which at Time's natal hour was first begun,
Shines ever on her lover as they run
And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.
Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
Down from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils the Sun's bold eyes,
Then in the gloaming finds her lover's lips.
While far and near the men our world call wise
See only that the Sun is in eclipse.
A SUGGESTION
To C. A. D.
Let the wild red-rose bloom. Though not to thee
So delicately perfect as the white
And unwed lily drooping in the light,
Though she has known the kisses of the bee
And tells her amorous tale to passers-by
In perfumed whispers and with untaught grace,
Still let the red-rose bloom in her own place;
She could not be the lily should she try.
Why to the wondrous nightingale cry hush
Or bid her cease her wild heart-breaking lay,
And tune her voice to imitate the way
The whip-poor-will makes music, or the thrush?
All airs of sorrow to one theme belong,
And passion is not copyrighted yet.
Each heart writes its own music. Why not let
The nightingale unchided sing her song?
THE DEPTHS
Not only sun-kissed heights are fair. Below
The cold, dark billows of the frowning deep
Do lovely blossoms of the ocean sleep,
Rocked gently by the waters to and fro.
The coral beds with magic colours glow,
And priceless pearl-encrusted molluscs heap
The glittering rocks where shining atoms leap
Like living broken rainbows.
Even so
We find the sea of sorrow. Black as night
The sullen surface meets our frightened gaze,
As down we sink to darkness and despair.
But at the depths--such beauty! such delight!
Such flowers as never grew in pleasure's ways!
Ah! not alone are sun-kissed summits fair.
LIFE'S OPERA
Like an opera-house is the world, I ween,
Where the passionate lover of music is seen
In the balcony near the roof:
While the very best seat in the first stage-box
Is filled by the person who laughs and talks
Through the harmony's warp and woof.
THE SALT SEA-WIND
When Venus, mother and maker of blisses,
Rose out of the billows, large-limbed, and fair,
She stood on the sands and blew sweet kisses
To the salt sea-wind as she dried her hair.
And the salt sea-wind was the first to caress her
To praise her beauty and call her sweet,
The first of the whole wide world to possess her,
She, that creature of light and heat.
Though the sea is old with its sorrows and angers,
And the world has forgotten why love was born,
Yet the salt sea-wind is full of the languors
That Venus taught on her natal morn.
And now whoever dwells there by the ocean,
And feels the wind on his hair and face,
Is stirred by a subtle and keen emotion,
The lingering spell of that first embrace.
NEW YEAR
New Year, I look straight in your eyes -
Our ways and our interests blend;
You may be a foe in disguise,
But I shall believe you a friend.
We get what we give in our measure,
We cannot give pain and get pleasure;
I give you good will and good cheer,
And you must return it, New Year.
We get what we give in this life,
Though often the giver indeed
Waits long upon doubting and strife
Ere proving the truth of my creed.
But somewhere, some way, and for ever
Reward is the meed of endeavour;
And if I am really worth while,
New Year, you will give me your smile.
You hide in your mystical hand
No "luck" that I cannot control,
If I trust my own courage and stand
On the Infinite strength of my soul.
Man holds in his brain and his spirit
A power that is God-like, or near it,
And he who has measured his force
Can govern events and their course.
You come with a crown on your brow,
New Year, without blemish or spot;
Yet you, and not I, sir, must bow,
For time is the servant of thought
Whatever you bring me of trouble
Shall turn into good, and then double,
If my spirit looks up without fear
To the Source that you came from, New Year.
CONCENTRATION
The age is too diffusive. Time and Force
Are frittered out and bring no satisfaction.
The way seems lost to straight determined action.
Like shooting stars that zig-zag from their course
We wander from our orbit's pathway; spoil
The role we're fitted for, to fail in twenty.
Bring empty measures, that were shaped for plenty,
At last as guerdon for a life of toil.
There's lack of greatness in this generation
Because no more man centres on one thought.
We know this truth, and yet we heed it not:
The secret of success is Concentration.