The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Optimism, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Poems of Optimism Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7421] [This file was first posted on April 27, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: US-ASCII
Transcribed from the 1919 (UK) edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Contents:
War
Greater
Britain
Belgium
Knitting
Mobilisation
Neutral
A
book for the King
The men-made
gods
The Ghosts
The
poet’s theme
Europe
After
The
peace angel
Peace should not
come
Miscellaneous
The
Winds of Fate
Beauty
The
invisible helpers
To the women
of Australia
Replies
Earth
bound
A successful man
Unsatisfied
Separation
To
the teachers of the young
Beauty
making
On Avon’s breast
I saw a stately swan
The little
go-cart
I am running forth
to meet you
Martyrs of peace
Home
The
eternal now
If I were a man,
a young man
We must send them
out to play
Protest
Reward
This
is my task
The statue
Behold
the earth
What they saw
His
last letter
A dialogue
A
wish
Justice
An
old song
Oh, poor, sick world
Praise
day
Interlude
The
land of the gone-away-souls
The
harp’s song
The pendulum
An
old-fashioned type
The sword
Love
and the seasons
A naughty little
comet
The last dance
A
vagabond mind
My flower room
My
faith
Arrow and bow
If
we should meet him
Faith
The
secret of prayer
The answer
A
vision
The second coming
Our hearts were not set on fighting,
We did
not pant for the fray,
And whatever wrongs need righting,
We
would not have met that way.
But the way that has opened before
us
Leads on thro’ a blood-red field;
And
we swear by the great God o’er us,
We will
die, but we will not yield.
The battle is not of our making,
And war was
never our plan;
Yet, all that is sweet forsaking,
We
march to it, man by man.
It is either to smite, or be smitten,
There’s
no other choice to-day;
And we live, as befits the Briton,
Or
we die, as the Briton may.
We were not fashioned for cages,
Or to feed
from a keeper’s hand;
Our strength which has grown thro’
ages
Is the strength of a slave-free land.
We
cannot kneel down to a master,
To our God alone
can we pray;
And we stand in this world disaster,
To
fight, like a lion at bay.
Ruined? destroyed? Ah, no; though blood in rivers ran
Down
all her ancient streets; though treasures manifold
Love-wrought,
Time-mellowed, and beyond the price of gold
Are lost, yet Belgium’s
star shines still in God’s vast plan.
Rarely have Kings been great, since kingdoms first began;
Rarely
have great kings been great men, when all was told.
But, by the
lighted torch in mailèd hands, behold,
Immortal Belgium’s
immortal king, and Man.
At the concert and the play
Everywhere you see them sitting,
Knitting,
knitting.
Women who the other day
Thought of nothing but their
frocks
Or their jewels or their locks,
Women who have lived
for pleasure,
Who have known no work but leisure,
Now are
knitting, knitting, knitting
For the soldiers over there.
On the trains and on the ships
With a diligence befitting,
They
are knitting.
Some with smiles upon their lips,
Some with
manners debonair,
Some with earnest look and air.
But each
heart in its own fashion,
Weaves in pity and compassion
In
their knitting, knitting, knitting
For the soldiers over there.
Hurried women to and fro
From their homes to labour flitting,
Knitting,
knitting,
Busy handed come and go.
Broken bits of time they
spare,
Just to feel they do their share,
Just to keep life’s
sense of beauty
In the doing of a duty,
They are knitting,
knitting, knitting
For the soldiers over there.
Oh the Kings of earth have mobilised their men.
See them moving,
valour proving,
To the fields of glory going,
Banners flowing,
bugles blowing,
Every one a mother’s son,
Brave with
uniform and gun,
Keeping step with easy swing,
Yes, with easy
step and light marching onward to the fight,
Just to please the
warlike fancy of a King;
Who has mobilised his army for the strife.
Oh the King of Death has mobilised his men.
See the hearses
huge and black
How they rumble down the track;
With their
coffins filled with dead,
Filled with men who fought and bled;
Now
from fields of glory coming
To the sound of muffled drumming
They
are lying still and white,
But the Kings have had their fight;
Death
has mobilised his army for the grave.
That pale word ‘Neutral’ sits becomingly
On lips
of weaklings. But the men whose brains
Find fuel in their
blood, the men whose minds
Hold sympathetic converse with their
hearts,
Such men are never neutral. That word stands
Unsexed
and impotent in Realms of Speech.
When mighty problems face a startled
world
No virile man is neutral. Right or wrong
His thoughts
go forth, assertive, unafraid
To stand by his convictions, and
to do
Their part in shaping issues to an end.
Silence may
guard the door of useless words,
At dictate of Discretion; but
to stand
Without opinions in a world which needs
Constructive
thinking, is a coward’s part.
A book has been made for the King,
A book of beauty and art;
To
the good king’s eyes
A smile shall rise
Hiding the ache
in his heart -
Hiding the hurt and the grief
As he turns it,
leaf by leaf.
A book has been made for the King,
A book of blood and of blight;
To
the Great King’s eyes
A look shall rise
That will blast
and wither and smite -
Yes, smite with a just God’s rage,
As
He turns it, page by page.
Said the Kaiser’s god to the god of the Czar:
‘Hark,
hark, how my people pray.
Their faith, methinks, is greater by
far
Than all the faiths of the others are;
They
know I will help them slay.’
Said the god of the Czar: ‘My people call
In
a medley of tongues; they know
I will lend my strength to them
one and all.
Wherever they fight their foes shall fall
Like
grass where the mowers go.’
Then the god of the Gauls spoke out of a cloud
To
the god of the King nearby:
‘Our people pray, tho’
they pray not loud;
They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd,
And
to laugh, tho’ themselves may die.’
And far out into the heart of Space
Where
a lonely pathway crept,
Up over the stars, to a secret place,
Where
no light shone but the light of His face,
Christ
covered His eyes and wept.
There was no wind, and yet the air
Seemed
suddenly astir;
There were no forms, and yet all space
Seemed
thronged with growing hosts.
They came from Where, and from Nowhere,
Like
phantoms as they were;
They came from many a land and place -
The
ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.
And some were white, and some were grey,
And
some were red as blood -
Those ghosts of men who met their death
Upon
the field of war.
Against the skies of fading day,
Like
banks of cloud they stood;
And each wraith asked another wraith,
‘What
were we fighting for?’
One said, ‘I was my mother’s all;
And
she was old and blind.’
Another, ‘Back on earth, my
wife
And week-old baby lie.’
Another,
‘At the bugle’s call,
I left my bride
behind;
Love made so beautiful my life
I
could not bear to die.’
In voices like the winds that moan
Among pine
trees at night,
They whispered long, the newly dead,
While
listening stars came out.
‘We wonder if the cause is known,
And
if the war was right,
That killed us in our prime,’ they
said,
‘And what it was about.’
They came in throngs that filled all space -
Those
whispering phantom hosts;
They came from many a land and place,
The
ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.
Why should the poet of these pregnant times
Be asked to sing
of war’s unholy crimes?
To laud and eulogise the trade which thrives
On horrid holocausts
of human lives?
Man was a fighting beast when earth was young,
And war the only
theme when Homer sung.
’Twixt might and might the equal contest lay:
Not so the
battles of our modern day.
Too often now the conquering hero struts,
A Gulliver among the
Lilliputs.
Success no longer rests on skill or fate,
But on the movements
of a syndicate.
Of old, men fought and deemed it right and just,
To-day the
warrior fights because he must;
And in his secret soul feels shame because
He desecrates the
higher manhood’s laws.
Oh, there are worthier themes for poet’s pen
In this great
hour than bloody deeds of men:
The rights of many - not the worth of one -
The coming issues,
not the battle done;
The awful opulence and awful need -
The rise of brotherhood
- the fall of greed;
The soul of man replete with God’s own force,
The call
‘to heights,’ and not the cry ‘to horse.’
Are there not better themes in this great age
For pen of poet,
or for voice of sage,
Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumb
Only that
greater song in time may come.
When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for,
He will not
sing of War.
Little lads and grandsires,
Women old with care;
But all
the men are dying men
Or dead men over there.
No one stops to dig graves;
Who has time to spare?
The
dead men, the dead men
How the dead men stare.
Kings are out a-hunting -
Oh, the sport is rare;
With dying
men and dead men
Falling everywhere.
Life for lads and grandsires;
Spoils for kings to share;
And
dead men, dead men,
Dead men everywhere.
Over the din of battle,
Over the cannons’ rattle,
Over
the strident voices of men and their dying groans,
I hear the falling
of thrones.
Out of the wild disorder
That spreads from border to border,
I
see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;
And the Rulers
wear no crowns.
Over the blood-charged water,
Over the fields of slaughter,
Down
to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things
I see
the passing of Kings.
Angel of Peace, the hounds of war,
Unleashed, are all abroad,
And
war’s foul trade again is made
Man’s
leading aim in life.
Blood dyes the billow and the sod;
The
very winds are rife
With tales of slaughter. Angel, pray,
What
can we do or think or say
In times like these?
‘Child,
think of God!’
‘Before this little speck in space
Called Earth with light
was shod,
Great chains and tiers of splendid spheres
Were
fashioned by His hand.
Be thine the part to love and laud,
Nor
seek to understand.
Go lift thine eyes from death-charged guns
To
one who made a billion suns;
And trust and wait.
Child,
dwell on God!’
Peace should not come along this foul, earth way.
Peace should
not come, until we cleanse the path.
God waited for us; now in
awful wrath
He pours the blood of men out day by day
To purify
the highroad for her feet.
Why, what would Peace do, in a world
where hearts
Are filled with thoughts like poison-pointed darts?
It
were not meet, surely it were not meet
For Peace to come, and with
her white robes hide
These industries of death - these guns and
swords, -
These uniformed, hate-filled, destructive hordes, -
These
hideous things, that are each nation’s pride.
So long as
men believe in armèd might
Let arms be brandished.
Let not Peace be sought
Until the race-heart empties out all thought
Of
blows and blood, as arguments for Right.
The world has never had
enough of war,
Else war were not. Now let the monster stand,
Until
he slays himself with his own hand;
Though no man knows what he
is fighting for.
Then in the place where wicked cannons stood
Let
Peace erect her shrine of Brotherhood.
One ship drives east and another drives west,
With the self-same
winds that blow,
’Tis the set of the sails
And
not the gales
That tell them the way to go.
Like the winds
of the sea are the winds of fate,
As we voyage along through life,
’Tis
the set of the soul
That decides its goal
And
not the calm or the strife.
The search for beauty is the search for God
Who is All Beauty.
He who seeks shall find.
And all along the paths my feet have trod,
I
have sought hungrily with heart and mind,
And
open eyes for beauty, everywhere.
Lo! I have
found the world is very fair.
The search for beauty is the search
for God.
Beauty was first revealed to me by stars,
Before
I saw it in my mother’s eyes,
Or, seeing, sensed it beauty,
I was stirred
To awe and wonder by those orbs of light
All
palpitant against empurpled skies.
They spoke a language to my
childish heart
Of mystery and splendour, and of space,
Friendly
with gracious, unseen presences.
Beauty was first revealed to me
by stars.
Sunsets enlarged the meaning of the word.
There
was a window looking to the west;
Beyond it, wide Wisconsin fields
of grain,
And then a hill, whereon white flocks of clouds
Would
gather in the afternoon to rest.
And when the sun went down behind
that hill
What scenes of glory spread before my sight;
What
beauty - beauty, absolute, supreme!
Sunsets enlarged the meaning
of that word.
Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet,
In
summer billowed like a crimson sea
Across the meadow lands.
One day, I stood
Breast-high amidst its waves, and heard the hum
Of
myriad bees, that had gone mad like me
With fragrance and with
beauty. Over us,
A loving sun smiled from a cloudless sky,
While
a bold breeze kissed lightly as it passed,
Clover in blossom, red
and honey-sweet.
Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful.
And
in the gallery of Nature hung
Colossal pictures hard against the
sky,
Set forests gorgeous with a hundred hues;
And
with each morning, some new wonder flung
Before the startled world;
some daring shade,
Some strange, new scheme of colour and of form.
Autumn
spoke loudly of the beautiful.
Winter, though rude, is delicate in art -
More
delicate than Summer or than fall
(Even as rugged man is more refined
In
vital things than woman). Winter’s touch
On
Nature seemed most beautiful of all -
That evanescent beauty of
the frost
On window panes; of clean, fresh, fallen snow;
Of
white, white sunlight on the ice-draped trees.
Winter, though rude,
is delicate in art.
Morning! The word itself is beautiful,
And
the young hours have many gifts to give
That feed the soul with
beauty. He who keeps
His days for labour and his nights for
sleep
Wakes conscious of the joy it is to live,
And
brings from that mysterious Land of Dreams
A sense of beauty that
illumines earth.
Morning! The word itself is beautiful.
The search for beauty is the search for God.
There are, there are
Invisible Great Helpers of the race.
Across
unatlased continents of space,
From star to star.
In
answer to some soul’s imperious need,
They
speed, they speed.
When the earth-loving young are forced to stand
Upon the border
of the Unknown Land,
They come, they come - those angels who have
trod
The altitudes of God,
And to the trembling heart
Their
strength impart.
Have you not seen the delicate
young maid,
Filled with the joy of life in her fair dawn,
Look
in the face of death, all unafraid,
And smilingly pass on?
This is not human strength; not even faith
Has
such large confidence in such an hour.
It is
a power
Supplied by beings who have conquered death.
Floating
from sphere to sphere
They hover near
The
souls that need the courage they can give.
This is no vision of a dreamer’s mind.
Though we are blind
They
live, they live,
Filling all space -
Invisible Great Helpers
of the race.
A toast to the splendid daughters
Of the New World over the
waters,
A world that is great as new;
Daughters
of brave old races,
Daughters of heights and spaces,
Broad
seas and broad earth places -
Hail to your land
and you!
The sun and the winds have fed you;
The width of your world
has led you
Out into the larger view;
Strong
with a strength that is tender,
Bright with a primal splendour,
Homage
and praise we render -
Hail to your land and
you!
Sisters and daughters and mothers,
Standing abreast with your
brothers,
Working for things that are true;
Thinking
and doing and daring,
Giving, receiving, and sharing,
Earning
the crowns you are wearing -
Hail to your land
and you!
You have lived long and learned the secret of life, O Seer!
Tell
me what are the best three things to seek -
The best three things
for a man to seek on earth?
The best three things for a man to seek, O Son! are these:
Reverence
for that great Source from whence he came;
Work for the world wherein
he finds himself;
And knowledge of the Realm toward which he goes.
What are the best three things to love on earth, O Seer!
What
are the best three things for a man to love?
The best three things for a man to love, O Son! are these:
Labour
which keeps his forces all in action;
A home wherein no evil thing
may enter;
And a loving woman with God in her heart.
What are the three great sins to shun, O Seer! -
What are the
three great sins for a man to shun?
The three great sins for a man to shun, O Son! are these:
A
thought which soils the heart from whence it goes;
An action that
can harm a living thing;
And undeveloped energies of mind.
What are the worst three things to fear, O Seer! -
What are
the worst three things for a man to fear?
The worst three things for man to fear, O Son! are these:
Doubt
and suspicion in a young child’s eyes;
Accusing shame upon
a woman’s face;
And in himself no consciousness of God.
New paradise, and groom and bride;
The world was all their own;
Her
heart swelled full of love and pride;
Yet were they quite alone?
‘Now
how is it, oh how is it, and why is it’ (in fear
All silent
to herself she spake) ‘that something strange seems here?’
Along the garden paths they walked -
The moon was at its height
-
And lover-wise they strolled and talked,
But something was
not right.
And ‘Who is that, now who is that, oh who is that,’
quoth she,
(All silent in her heart she spake) ‘that seems
to follow me?’
He drew her closer to his side;
She felt his lingering kiss;
And
yet a shadow seemed to glide
Between her heart and his.
And
‘What is that, now what is that, oh what is that,’ she said,
(All
silent to herself she spake) ‘that minds me of the dead?’
They wandered back by beds of bloom;
They climbed a winding
stair;
They crossed the threshold of their room,
But something
waited there.
‘Now who is this, and what is this, and where
is this,’ she cried,
(All silent was the cry she made) ‘that
comes to haunt and hide?’
Wide-eyed she lay, the while he slept;
She could not name her
fear.
But something from her bedside crept
Just as the dawn
drew near,
(She did not know, she could not know - how could she
know? - who came
To haunt the home of one whose hand had dug her
grave of shame).
There was a man who killed a loving maid
In some mad mood of
passion; and he paid
The price, upon a scaffold. Now his
name
Stands only as a synonym for shame.
There was another
man, who took to wife
A loving woman. She was full of life,
Of
hope, and aspirations; and her pride
Clothed her like some rich
mantle.
First, the
wide
Glad stream of life that through her veins had sway
He
dammed by rocks, cast in it, day by day.
Her flag of hope, flung
gaily to the world,
He placed half mast, and then hauled down,
and furled.
The aspirations, breathing in each word,
By subtle
ridicule, were made absurd:
The delicate fine mantle of her pride,
With rude unfeeling hands,
was wrenched aside:
And by mean avarice, or vulgar show,
Her
quivering woman’s heart was made to know
That she was but
a chattel, bought to fill
Whatever niche might please the buyer’s
will.
So she was murdered, while the slow years went.
And her assassin,
honoured, opulent,
Lived with no punishment, or social ban!
‘A
good provider, a successful man.’
The bird flies home to its young;
The flower folds its leaves
about an opening bud;
And in my neighbour’s house there is
the cry of a child.
I close my window that I need not hear.
She is mine, and she is very beautiful:
And in her heart there
is no evil thought.
There is even love in her heart -
Love
of life, love of joy, love of this fair world,
And love of me (or
love of my love for her);
Yet she will never consent to bear me
a child.
And when I speak of it she weeps,
Always she weeps,
saying:
‘Do I not bring joy enough into your life?
Are
you not satisfied with me and my love,
As I am satisfied with you?
Never
would I urge you to some great peril
To please my whim; yet ever
so you urge me,
Urge me to risk my happiness - yea, life itself
-
So lightly do you hold me.’ And then she weeps,
Always
she weeps, until I kiss away her tears
And soothe her with sweet
lies, saying I am content.
Then she goes singing through the house
like some bright bird
Preening her wings, making herself all beautiful,
Perching
upon my knee, and pecking at my lips
With little kisses.
So again love’s ship
Goes sailing forth upon a portless sea,
From
nowhere unto nowhere; and it takes
Or brings no cargoes to enrich
the world.
The years
Are
passing by us. We will yet be old
Who now are young.
And all the man in me
Cries for the reproduction of myself
Through
her I love. Why, love and youth like ours
Could populate
with gods and goddesses
This great, green earth, and give the race
new types
Were it made fruitful! Often I can see,
As
in a vision, desolate old age
And loneliness descending on us two,
And
nowhere in the world, nowhere beyond the earth,
Fruit of my loins
and of her womb to feed
Our hungry hearts. To me it seems
More
sorrowful than sitting by small graves
And wetting sad-eyed pansies
with our tears.
The bird flies home to its young;
The flower folds its leaves
about an opening bud;
And in my neighbour’s house there is
the cry of a child.
I close my window that I need not hear.
HE
One decade and a half since first we came
With hearts aflame
Into
Love’s Paradise, as man and mate;
And now we separate.
Soon,
all too soon,
Waned the white splendour of our honeymoon.
We
saw it fading; but we did not know
How bleak
the path would be when once its glow
Was wholly gone.
And
yet we two were forced to follow on -
Leagues,
leagues apart while ever side by side.
Darker
and darker grew the loveless weather,
Darker the way,
Until
we could not stay
Longer together.
Now
that all anger from our hearts has died,
And love has flown far
from its ruined nest,
To find sweet shelter in another breast,
Let
us talk calmly of our past mistakes,
And of our
faults; if only for the sakes
Of those with whom our futures will
be cast.
You shall speak first.
SHE
A woman would speak last -
Tell me my first
grave error as a wife.
HE
Inertia. My young veins were rife
With
manhood’s ardent blood; and love was fire
Within me.
But you met my strong desire
With lips like frozen
rose leaves - chaste, so chaste
That all your
splendid beauty seemed but waste
Of love’s materials.
Then of that beauty
Which had so pleased my sight
You
seemed to take no care; you felt no duty
To keep
yourself an object of delight
For lover’s-eyes;
and appetite
And indolence soon wrought
Their devastating
changes. You were not
The woman I had sworn
to love and cherish.
If love is starved, what can love do but perish?
Now
will you speak of my first fatal sin
And all
that followed, even as I have done?
SHE
I must begin
With the young
quarter of our honeymoon.
You are but one
Of
countless men who take the priceless boon
Of woman’s love
and kill it at the start,
Not
wantonly but blindly. Woman’s passion
Is such a subtle
thing - woof of her heart,
Web of her spirit; and the body’s
part
Is to play ever but the lesser rôle
To
her white soul.
Seized in brute
fashion,
It fades like down on wings of butterflies;
Then
dies.
So my love died.
Next,
on base Mammon’s cross you nailed my pride,
Making
me ask for what was mine by right:
Until, in
my own sight,
I seemed a helpless slave
To
whom the master gave
A grudging dole. Oh, yes, at times gifts
showered
Upon your chattel; but I was not dowered
By
generous love. Hate never framed a curse
Or placed a cruel
ban
That so crushed woman, as the law of man
That
makes her pensioner upon his purse.
That necessary stuff called
gold is such
A cold, rude thing it needs the nicest touch
Of
thought and speech when it approaches love,
Or
it will prove the certain death thereof.
HE
Your words cut deep; ’tis time we separate.
SHE
Well, each goes wiser to a newer mate.
How large thy task, O teacher of the young,
To take the ravelled
threads by parents flung
With careless hands, and through consummate
care
To weave a fabric, fine and firm and fair.
God’s
uncompleted work is thine to do -
Be brave and true!
Methinks there is no greater work in life
Than making beauty.
Can the mind conceive
One little corner in celestial realms
Unbeautiful,
or dull or commonplace?
Or picture ugly angels, illy clad?
Beauty
and splendour, opulence and joy,
Are attributes of God and His
domain,
And so are worth and virtue. But why preach
Of
virtue only to the sons of men,
Ignoring beauty, till they think
it sin?
Why, if each dweller on this little globe
Could know
the sacred meaning of that word
And understand its deep significance,
Men’s
thoughts would form in beauty, till their dreams
Of heaven would
find expression in their lives,
However humble; they themselves
would grow
Godlike, befitting such a fair estate.
Let us be
done with what is only good,
Demanding here and now the beautiful;
Lest,
with the mind and eye on earth untrained,
We shall be ill at ease
when heaven is gained.
One day when England’s June was at its best,
I saw a stately
and imperious swan
Floating on Avon’s fair untroubled breast.
Sudden,
it seemed as if all strife had gone
Out of the world; all discord,
all unrest.
The sorrows and the sinnings of the race
Faded away like nightmares
in the dawn.
All heaven was one blue background for the grace
Of
Avon’s beautiful, slow-moving swan;
And earth held nothing
mean or commonplace.
Life seemed no longer to be hurrying on
With unbecoming haste;
but softly trod,
As one who reads in emerald leaf, or lawn,
Or
crimson rose a message straight from God.
. . . . .
On Avon’s
breast I saw a stately swan.
It was long, long ago that a soul like a flower
Unfolded, and
blossomed, and passed in an hour.
It was long, long ago; and the
memory seems
Like the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.
The kind years have crowned me with many a joy
Since the going
away of my wee little boy;
Each one as it passed me has stooped
with a kiss,
And left some delight - knowing one thing I miss.
But when in the park or the street, all elate
A baby I see in
his carriage of state,
As proud as a king, in his little go-cart
-
I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!
And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May;
And the baby,
who came but to hurry away
In the little white hearse, is not dead,
but alive,
And out in his little go-cart for a drive.
I whisper a prayer as he rides down the street,
And my thoughts
follow after him, tender and sweet;
For I know, by a law that is
vast and divine,
(Though I know not his name) that the baby is
mine!
I am running forth to meet you, O my Master,
For they tell me
you are surely on the way;
Yes, they tell me you are coming back
again
(While I run, while I run).
And I wish my feet were
winged to speed on faster,
And I wish I might behold you here to-day,
Lord
of men.
I am running, yet I walk beside my neighbour,
And I take the
duties given me to do;
Yes, I take the daily duties as they fall
(While
I run, while I run),
And my heart runs to my hand and helps the
labour,
For I think this is the way that leads to you,
Lord
of all.
I am running, yet I turn from toil and duty,
Oftentimes to just
the art of being glad;
Yes, to just the joys that make the earth-world
bright
(While I run, while I run).
For the soul that worships
God must worship beauty,
And the heart that thinks of You can not
be sad,
Lord of light.
I am running, yet I pause to greet my brother,
And I lean to
rid my garden of its weed;
Yes, I lean, although I lift my thoughts
above
(While I run, while I run).
And I think of that command,
‘Love one another,’
As I hear discordant sounds of
creed with creed,
Lord of Love.
I am running, and the road is lit with splendour,
And it brightens
and shines fairer with each span;
Yes, it brightens like the highway
in a dream
(While I run, while I run).
And my heart to all
the world grows very tender,
For I seem to see the Christ in every
man,
Lord supreme.
Fame writes ever its song and story,
For heroes of war, in letters
of glory.
But where is the story and where is the song
For the heroes
of peace and the martyrs of wrong?
They fight their battles in shop and mine;
They die at their
posts and make no sign.
They herd like beasts in a slaughter pen;
They live like cattle
and suffer like men.
Why, set by the horrors of such a life,
Like a merry-go-round
seems the battle’s strife,
And the open sea, and the open boat,
And the deadly cannon with
bellowing throat.
Oh, what are they all, with death thrown in,
To the life that
has nothing to lose or win -
The life that has nothing to hope or gain
But ill-paid labour
and beds of pain?
Fame, where is your story and where is your song
For the martyrs
of peace and the victims of wrong?
The greatest words are always solitaires,
Set
singly in one syllable; like birth,
Life, love,
hope, peace. I sing the worth
Of that dear word toward which
the whole world fares -
I sing
of home.
To make a home, we should take all of love
And
much of labour, patience, and keen joy;
Then
mix the elements of earth’s alloy
With finer things drawn
from the realms above,
The
spirit home.
There should be music, melody and song;
Beauty
in every spot; an open door
And generous sharing
of the pleasure store
With fellow-pilgrims as they pass along,
Seeking
for home.
Make ample room for silent friends - the books,
That
give so much and only ask for space.
Nor let
Utility crowd out the vase
Which has no use save gracing by its
looks
The precious home.
To narrow bounds let mirrors lend their aid
And
multiply each gracious touch of art;
And let
the casual stranger feel the part -
The great creative part - that
love has played
Within the
home.
Here bring your best in thought and word and deed,
Your
sweetest acts, your highest self-control;
Nor
save them for some later hour and goal.
Here is the place, and
now the time of need,
Here
in your home.
Time with his back against the mighty wall,
Which
hides from view all future joy and sorrow,
Hears, without answer,
the impatient call
Of puny man, to tell him of
to-morrow.
Moral, be wise, and to the silence bow,
These
useless and unquiet ways forsaking;
Concern thyself with the Eternal
Now -
To-day hold all things, ready for thy taking.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,
I
would look in the eyes of Life undaunted
By any
Fate that might threaten me.
I would give to the world what the
world most wanted -
Manhood that knows it can
do and be;
Courage that dares, and faith that
can see
Clear into the depths of the human soul,
And
find God there, and the ultimate goal,
If I were a man, a young
man, and knew what I know to-day.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,
I
would think of myself as the masterful creature
Of
all the Masterful plan;
The Formless Cause, with
form and feature;
The Power
that heeds not limit or ban;
Man,
wonderful man.
I would do good deeds, and forget them straightway;
I
would weave my woes into ropes and climb
Up to the heights of the
helper’s gateway;
And
Life should serve me, and Time,
And
I would sail out, and out, and find
The
treasures that lie in the deep sea, Mind.
I
would dream, and think, and act;
I would work, and love, and pray,
Till
each dream and vision grew into a fact,
If I were a man, a young
man, and knew what I know to-day.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day,
I
would guard my passions as Kings guard treasures,
And
keep them high and clean.
(For the will of a
man, with his passions, measures;
It
is strong as they are keen.)
I would think of
each woman as some one’s mother;
I would
think of each man as my own blood brother,
And speed him along
on his way.
And the glory of life in this wonderful
hour
Should fill me and thrill me with Conscious
power,
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
Now much there is need of doing must not be done in haste;
But
slowly and with patience, as a jungle is changed to a town.
But
listen, my brothers, listen; it is not always so:
When a murderer’s
hand is lifted to kill, there is no time to waste;
And
the way to change his purpose is first to knock him down
And
teach him the law of kindness after you give him the blow.
The acorn you plant in the morning will not give shade at noon;
And
the thornless cactus must be bred by year on year of toil.
But
listen, my brothers, listen; it is not ever the way,
For the roots
of the poison ivy plant you cannot pull too soon;
If
you would better your garden and make the most of your soil,
Hurry
and dig up the evil things and cast them out to-day.
The ancient sin of the nations no law can ever efface;
We
must wait for the mothers of men to grow, and give clean souls to their
sons.
But listen, my brothers,
listen - when a child cries out in pain,
We must rise from the
banquet board and go, though the host is saying grace;
We
must rise and find the Herod of Greed, who is killing our little ones,
Nor
ever go back to the banquet until the monster is slain.
The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes,
As
a sturdy oak will face the storm, and does not break or bow.
But
listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a day;
If
a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise?
We
are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the children
NOW;
We must rescue the little
slaves of Greed and send them out to play.
To sit in silence when we should protest
Makes cowards out of
men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no
voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance and lust
The
Inquisition yet would serve the law
And guillotines decide our
least disputes.
The few who dare must speak and speak again
To
right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,
No vested power
in this great day and land
Can gag or throttle; Press and voice
may cry
Loud disapproval of existing ills,
May criticise oppression
and condemn
The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
That
let the children and child-bearers toil
To purchase ease for idle
millionaires,
Therefore do I protest against the boast
Of
independence in this mighty land.
Call no chain strong which holds
one rusted link,
Call no land free that holds one fettered slave
Until
the manacled, slim wrists of babes
Are loosed to toss in childish
sport and glee,
Until the Mother bears no burden save
The
precious one beneath her heart; until
God’s soil is rescued
from the clutch of greed
And given back to labour, let no man
Call
this the Land of Freedom.
Fate used me meanly; but I looked at her and laughed,
That none
might know how bitter was the cup I quaffed.
Along came Joy, and
paused beside me where I sat,
Saying, ‘I came to see what
you were laughing at.’
When the whole world resounds with rude alarms
Of warring arms,
When
God’s good earth, from border unto border
Shows man’s
disorder,
Let me not waste my dower of mortal might
In grieving
over wrongs I cannot right.
This is my task: amid discordant strife
To
keep a clean sweet centre in my life;
And though the human orchestra
may be
Playing all out of key -
To tune my soul to symphonies
above,
And sound the note of love.
This is my task.
When by the minds of men most beauteous Faith
Seems doomed to
death,
And to her place is hoisted, by soul treason,
The dullard
Reason,
Let me not hurry forth with flag unfurled
To proselyte
an unbelieving world.
This is my task: in depths of unstarred night
Or
in diverting and distracting light
To keep (in crowds, or in my
room alone)
Faith on her lofty throne;
And whatsoever happen
or befall,
To see God’s hand in all.
This is my task.
When, in church pews, men worship God in words,
But meet their
kind with swords,
When Fair Religion, stripped of holy passion,
Walks
masked as Fashion,
Let me not wax indignant at the sight;
Or
waste my strength bewailing her sad plight.
This is my task: to
search in my own mind
Until the qualities of God I find;
To
seek them in the hearts of friend and foe -
Or high or low;
And
in my hours of toil, or prayer, or play,
To live my creed each
day.
This is my task.
A granite rock in the mountain side
Gazed on the world and was
satisfied.
It watched the centuries come and go,
It welcomed
the sunlight yet loved the snow,
It grieved when the forest was
forced to fall,
Yet joyed when steeples rose white and tall
In
the valley below it, and thrilled to hear
The voice of the great
town roaring near.
When the mountain stream from its idle play
Was caught by the
mill-wheel and borne away
And trained to labour, the gray rock
mused,
‘Tree and verdure and stream are used
By man
the master, but I remain
Friend of the mountain and star and plain,
Unchanged
forever by God’s decree
While passing centuries bow to me.’
Then all unwarned, with a mighty shock
Out of the mountain was
wrenched the rock;
Bruised and battered, and broken in heart
It
was carried away to the common mart.
Wrenched, and ruined in peace
and pride,
‘Oh, God is cruel,’ the granite cried,
‘Comrade
of mountain, of star the friend,
By all deserted - how sad my end.’
A dreaming sculptor in passing by
Gazed on the granite with
thoughtful eye;
Then stirred with a purpose supremely grand
He
bade his dream in the rock expand.
And lo! from the broken and
shapeless mass
That grieved and doubted, it came to pass
That
a glorious statue of priceless worth
And infinite beauty adorned
the earth.
Behold the earth swung in among the stars
Fit home for gods
if men were only kind -
Do thou thy part to shape it to those ends,
By
shaping thine own life to perfectness.
Seek nothing for thyself
or thine own kin
That robs another of one hope or joy,
Let
no man toil in poverty and pain
To give thee unearned luxury and
ease.
Feed not the hungry servitor with stones,
That idle
guests may fatten on thy bread.
Look for the good in stranger and
in foe,
Nor save thy praises for the cherished few;
And let
the weakest sinner find in thee
An impetus to reach receding heights.
Behold
the earth swung in among the stars -
Fit home for gods; wake thou
the God within
And by the broad example of thy love
Communicate
Omnipotence to men.
All men are unawakened gods: be thine
The
voice to rouse them from unhappy sleep
Sad man, Sad man, tell me, pray,
What did you see to-day?
I saw the unloved and unhappy old, waiting for slow delinquent death
to come.
Pale little children toiling for the rich, in rooms where
sunlight is ashamed to go.
The awful alms-house, where the living
dead rot slowly in their hideous open graves.
And there were shameful
things;
Soldiers and forts, and industries of death, and devil
ships, and loud-winged devil birds,
All bent on slaughter and destruction.
These and yet more shameful things mine eyes beheld.
Old men upon
lascivious conquest bent, and young men living with no thought of God;
And
half clothed women puffing at a weed, aping the vices of the underworld
-
Engrossed in shallow pleasures and intent on being barren wives.
These
things I saw.
(How God must loathe His earth.)
Glad man, Glad man, tell me, pray,
What did you see to-day?
I saw an aged couple, in whose eyes
Shone that deep light of
mingled love and faith
Which makes the earth one room of Paradise,
And
leaves no sting in death.
I saw fair regiments of children pour,
Rank after rank, out
of the schoolroom door
By Progress mobilised. They seemed
to say
‘Let ignorance make way;
We are the heralds of
a better day.’
I saw the college and the church that stood
For all things sane
and good.
I saw God’s helpers in the shop and slum
Blazing a path
for health and hope to come;
And men and women of large soul and
mind
Absorbed in toil for bettering their kind.
Then, too, I saw life’s sweetest sight and best -
Pure
mothers with dear babies at the breast,
These things I saw.
(How
God must love His earth.)
Well, you are free;
The longed for, lied for, waited for decree
Is
yours to-day.
I made no protest; and you had your say,
And
left me with no vestige of repute.
Neglect, abuse, and cruelty
you charge
With broken marriage vows. The list is large
But
not to be denied. So I was mute.
Now you shall listen to a few plain facts
Before you go out
wholly from my life
As some man’s wife.
Read carefully
this statement of your acts
Which changed the lustre of my honeymoon
To
sombre gloom,
And wrenched the cover from Pandora’s box.
In those first talks
’Twixt bride and groom I showed you
my whole heart,
Showed you how deep my love was and how true;
With
all a strong man’s feeling I loved YOU:
(God, how I loved
you, my one chosen mate.)
But I learned this
(So poorly did
you play your little part):
You married marriage, to avoid the
fate
Of having ‘Miss’
Carved on your tombstone.
Love you did not know,
But you were greedy for the showy things
That
money brings.
Such weak affection as you could bestow
Was
given the provider, not the lover.
The knowledge hurt. Keen pain like that is dumb;
And masks
itself in smiles, lest men discover.
But I was lonely; and the
feeling grew
The more I studied you.
Into your shallow heart
love could not come,
But yet you loved my love; because it gave
The
prowess of a mistress o’er a slave.
You showed your power
In
petty tyranny hour after hour,
Day after day, year after lengthening
years.
My tasks, my pleasures, my pursuits were not
Held near
or dear,
Or made to seem important in your thought.
My friends
were not your friends; you goaded me
By foolish and ignoble jealousy,
Till,
through suggestion’s laws
I gave you cause.
The beauteous
ideal Love had hung
In my soul’s shrine,
And worshipped
as a something all divine,
With wanton hand you flung
Into
the dust. And then you wondered why
My love should die.
My
sins and derelictions cry aloud
To all the world: my head is bowed
Under
its merited reproaches. Yours
Is lifted to receive
The
sympathy the court’s decree insures.
The world loves to believe
In
man’s depravity and woman’s worth;
But I am one of
many men on earth
Whose loud resounding fall
Is like the crashing
of some well-built wall
Which those who seek can trace
To
the slow work of insects at its base.
. . . . . . .
Be not
afraid.
The alimony will be promptly paid
HE
Let us be friends. My life is sad and lonely,
While yours
with love is beautiful and bright.
Be kind to me: I ask your friendship
only.
No Star is robbed by lending darkness light.
SHE
I give you friendship as I understand it,
A sentiment I feel
for all mankind.
HE
Oh, give me more; may not one friend command it?
SHE
Look in the skies, ’tis there the star you’ll find;
It
casts its beams on all with equal favour.
HE
I would have more than what all men may claim.
SHE
Then your ideas of friendship strongly savour
Of sentiments
which wear another name.
HE
May not one friend receive more than another?
SHE
Not man from woman and still remain a friend.
Life holds but
three for her, a father, brother,
Lover - against the rest she
must contend.
HE
Against the universe I would protect you,
With my life even,
nor hold the price too dear.
SHE
But not against yourself, should fate select you
As Lancelot
for foolish Guinevere.
HE
You would not tempt me?
SHE
That is undisputed.
We put the question back upon the shelf.
My
point remains unanswered, unrefuted
No man protects a woman from
himself.
HE
I am immune: for once I loved with passion,
And all the fires
within me burned to dust.
I think of woman but in friendly fashion:
In
me she finds a comrade safe to trust.
SHE
So said Mount Peelée to the listening ocean:
Behold what
followed! Let the good be wise.
Though human hearts proclaim
extinct emotion,
Beware how high the tides of friendship rise.
Great dignity ever attends great grief,
And silently walks beside
it;
And I always know when I see such woe
That Invisible Helpers
guide it.
And I know deep sorrow is like a tide,
It cannot
ever be flowing;
The high-water mark in the night and the dark
-
Then dawn, and the outward going.
But the people who pull at my heart-strings hard
Are the ones
whom destiny hurries
Through commonplace ways to the end of their
days,
And pesters with paltry worries.
The peddlers who trudge
with a budget of wares
To the door that is slammed unkindly;
The
vendor who stands with his shop in his hands
Where the hastening
hosts pass blindly;
The woman who holds in her poor flat purse
The price of her
rent-room only,
While her starved eye feeds on the comfort she
needs
To brighten the lot that is lonely;
The man in the desert
of endless work,
Unsoftened by islands of leisure;
And the
children who toil in the dust and the soil,
While their little
hearts cry for pleasure;
The people who labour, and scrimp, and save,
At the call of
some thankless duty,
And carefully hide, with a mien of pride,
Their
ravening hunger for beauty;
These ask no pity, and seek no aid,
But
the thought of them somehow is haunting;
And I wish I might fling
at their feet everything
That I know in their hearts they are wanting.
However inexplicable may seem
Event and circumstance upon the
earth,
Though favours fall on those who none esteem,
And insult
and indifference greet worth,
Though poverty repays a life of toil,
And
riches spring where idle feet have trod,
And storms lay waste the
patiently tilled soil -
Yet Justice sways the universe of God.
As undisturbed the stately stars remain
Beyond the glare of
day’s obscuring light,
So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes
in vain
Seek it persistently by reason’s sight.
But,
when once freed, the illumined soul looks out -
Its cry will be,
‘O God, how could I doubt?’
Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of
Prayer;
And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is
a stair.
A shabby old man with a music machine on the sordid city street;
But
suddenly earth seemed Arcady, and life grew young and sweet.
For
the city street fled, and the world was green, and a little house stood
by the sea;
And she came singing a martial air (she who was peace
itself);
She brought back with her the old, strange charm, of mingled
pathos and glee -
With her eyes of a child in a woman’s face, and her soul of
a saint in an elf.
She had been gone for many a year. They
tell us it is not far -
That silent place where the dear ones go,
but it might as well be a star.
Yes, it might as well be a distant
star as a beautiful Near-by Land,
If we hear no voice, and see
no face, and feel no touch of a hand.
But now she had come, for I saw her there, and she looked so blithe
and young;
(Not white and still, as I saw her last) and the rose
that she wore was red;
And her voice soared up in a bird-like trill,
at the end of the song she sung,
And she mimicked a soldier’s
warlike stride, and tossed back her dear little head.
She had gone for many a year, and never came back before;
But
I think she dwells in a Near-by Land, since song jarred open the door;
Yes,
I think it is surely a Near-by Land, that place where our loved ones
are,
For the song would never have reached her ear had she been
on a distant star.
Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of
Prayer,
And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is
a stair.
Lord of all the Universe, when I think of YOU,
Flinging stars
out into space, moving suns and tides;
Then this little mortal
mind gets the larger view,
And the carping self of me runs away
and hides.
Then I see all shadowed paths leading out to Light;
See the
false things fade away, leaving but the True;
See the wrong things
slay themselves, leaving only Right;
When this little mortal mind
gets the larger view.
Cavillings at this and that, censure, doubt and fear,
Fly, as
fly before the dawn, insects of the night;
Life and Death are understood;
everything seems clear,
All the wrong things slay themselves, leaving
only Right.
The World has walked with fever in its veins
For many and many
a day. Oh, poor, sick world!
Not knowing all its dreams of
greed and gain,
Of selfish conquest and possession, were
Disordered
visions of a brain diseased.
Now the World’s malady is at its height
And there is foul
contagion in its breath.
It raves of death and slaughter; and the
stars
Shake with reverberations of its cries,
And the sad
seas are troubled and disturbed.
So must it rave - this sick and
suffering world -
Until the old secretions in its blood
Are
emptied out and purged away by war;
And the deep seated cankers
of the mind
Begin the healing process. Then a calm
Shall
come upon the earth; and that loved word
PEACE, shall be understood
from shore to shore.
Shriek on, mad world. The great Physician sits
Serenely
conscious of the coming change,
Nor seeks to check the fever; it
must run
Until its course is finished. He can wait.
In his vast Solar Systems he has seen
So many other worlds as
sick as this
He feels but pity for his ailing charge,
Not
blame or anger. And he knows the hour
Will surely dawn when
that sick child shall wake
Free from all frenzied fancies, and
shall turn
Clear-seeing eyes upon the face of God.
Then shall
begin the new millennium.
Lord of all the Universe, when I think of YOU,
Then this little
mortal mind gets the larger view;
Then I see all shadowed paths
leading into Light,
Where the wrong things slay themselves, leaving
only Right.
Oh, poor, sick world!
Let us halt now for a space in our hurrying;
Let us take time
to look up and look out;
Let us refuse for a spell to be worrying;
Let
us decline to both question and doubt.
If one goes cavilling,
Hair
splitting, flaw hunting - ready for strife -
All the best pleasure
is missed in the travelling
Onward through life.
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.
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.
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.
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.
[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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.’
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.
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.’
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.
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.
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 æons 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.’
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.’
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.
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