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diff --git a/old/51614-0.txt b/old/51614-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6ef8b89..0000000 --- a/old/51614-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3205 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Pleasure, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Poems of Pleasure - -Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox - -Release Date: March 31, 2016 [EBook #51614] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PLEASURE *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - POEMS OF PLEASURE - - [Illustration: Ella Wheeler Wilcox; signature and portrait] - - - - - POEMS OF PLEASURE. - - BY - - ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. - - AUTHOR OF - - “POEMS OF PASSION.” “MAURINE.” “MAL MOULEE” ETC. - - CHICAGO: - - W. B. CONKEY COMPANY. - - 1897. - - 1888. - Copyright By - BELFORD CLARKE & CO. - - 1892. - Copyright By - MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. - All rights reserved. - - 1893. - Copyright By - W. B. CONKEY COMPANY. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE. - -Part I. Passional 7 - -Part II. Philosophical 51 - -Part III. Miscellaneous 91 - - - - - PASSIONAL. - - - - - POEMS OF PLEASURE. - - - - - SURRENDER. - - - Love, when we met, ’twas like two planets meeting. - Strange chaos followed; body, soul, and heart - Seemed shaken, thrilled, and startled by that greeting. - Old ties, old dreams, old aims, all torn apart - And wrenched away, left nothing there the while - But the great shining glory of your smile. - - I knew no past; ’twas all a blurred, bleak waste; - I asked no future; ’twas a blinding glare. - I only saw the present: as men taste - Some stimulating wine, and lose all care, - I tasted Love’s elixir, and I seemed - Dwelling in some strange land, like one who dreamed. - - It was a godlike separate existence; - Our world was set apart in some fair clime. - I had no will, no purpose, no resistance; - I only knew I loved you for all time. - The earth seemed something foreign and afar, - And we two, sovereigns dwelling in a star! - - It is so sad, so strange, I almost doubt - That all those years could be, before we met. - Do you not wish that we could blot them out? - Obliterate them wholly, and forget - That we had any part in life until - We clasped each other with Love’s rapture thrill? - - My being trembled to its very center - At that first kiss. Cold Reason stood aside - With folded arms to let a grand Love enter - In my Soul’s secret chamber to abide. - Its great High Priest, my first love and my last, - There on its altar I consumed my past. - - And all my life I lay upon its shrine - The best emotions of my heart and brain, - Whatever gifts and graces may be mine; - No secret thought, no memory I retain, - But give them all for dear Love’s precious sake; - Complete surrender of the whole I make. - - - - - THE BIRTH OF THE OPAL. - - - The Sunbeam loved the Moonbeam, - And followed her low and high, - But the Moonbeam fled and hid her head, - She was so shy--so shy. - - The Sunbeam wooed with passion; - Ah, he was a lover bold! - And his heart was afire with mad desire - For the Moonbeam pale and cold. - - She fled like a dream before him, - Her hair was a shining sheen, - And oh, that Fate would annihilate - The space that lay between! - - Just as the day lay panting - In the arms of the twilight dim, - The Sunbeam caught the one he sought - And drew her close to him. - - But out of his warm arms, startled - And stirred by Love’s first shock, - She sprang afraid, like a trembling maid, - And hid in the niche of a rock. - - And the Sunbeam followed and found her, - And led her to Love’s own feast; - And they were wed on that rocky bed, - And the dying Day was their priest. - - And lo! the beautiful Opal-- - That rare and wondrous gem-- - Where the moon and sun blend into one, - Is the child that was born to them. - - - - - THE DIFFERENCE. - - - Passion is what the sun feels for the earth - When harvests ripen into golden birth. - - Lust is the hot simoon whose burning breath - Sweeps o’er the fields with devastating death. - - Passion is what God felt, the Holy One, - Who loved the world so, He begot his Son. - - Lust is the impulse Satan peering in - To Eden had, when he taught Eve to sin. - - One sprang from light, and one from darkness grew - How dim the vision that confounds the two! - - - - - TWO LOVES. - - - The woman he loved, while he dreamed of her, - Danced on till the stars grew dim, - But alone with her heart, from the world apart, - Sat the woman who loved him. - - The woman he worshiped only smiled, - When he poured out his passionate love. - But the other somewhere, kissed her treasure most rare, - A book he had touched with his glove. - - The woman he loved betrayed his trust, - And he wore the scars for life; - And he cared not, nor knew, that the other was true; - But no man called her his wife. - - The woman he loved trod festal halls, - While they sang his funeral hymn, - But the sad bells tolled, ere the year was old, - For the woman who loved him. - - - - - THE WAY OF IT. - - - This is the way of it, wide world over, - One is beloved, and one is the lover, - One gives and the other receives. - One lavishes all in a wild emotion, - One offers a smile for a life’s devotion, - One hopes and the other believes, - One lies awake in the night to weep, - And the other drifts off in a sweet sound sleep. - - One soul is aflame with a godlike passion, - One plays with love in an idler’s fashion, - One speaks and the other hears. - One sobs, “I love you,” and wet eyes show it, - And one laughs lightly, and says “I know it,” - With smiles for the other’s tears. - One lives for the other and nothing beside, - And the other remembers the world is wide. - - This is the way of it, sad earth over, - The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover, - And the other learns to forget. - “For what is the use of endless sorrow? - Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-morrow; - And life is not over yet.” - Oh! I know this truth, if I know no other, - That passionate Love is Pain’s own mother. - - - - - ANGEL OR DEMON. - - - You call me an angel of love and of light, - A being of goodness and heavenly fire, - Sent out from God’s kingdom to guide you aright, - In paths where your spirits may mount and aspire. - You say that I glow like a star on its course, - Like a ray from the altar, a spark from the source. - - Now list to my answer; let all the world hear it, - I speak unafraid what I know to be true: - A pure, faithful love is the creative spirit - Which makes women angels! I live but in you. - We are bound soul to soul by life’s holiest laws; - If I am an angel--why you are the cause. - - As my ship skims the sea, I look up from the deck, - Fair, firm at the wheel shines Love’s beautiful form, - And shall I curse the barque that last night went to wreck, - By the Pilot abandoned to darkness and storm? - My craft is no stauncher, she too had been lost-- - Had the wheelman deserted, or slept at his post. - - I laid down the wealth of my soul at your feet - (Some woman does this for some man every day). - No desperate creature who walks in the street, - Has a wickeder heart than I might have, I say, - Had you wantonly misused the treasures you won, - --As so many men with heart riches have done. - - This fire from God’s altar, this holy love flame, - That burns like sweet incense forever for you, - Might now be a wild conflagration of shame, - Had you tortured my heart, or been base or untrue. - For angels and devils are cast in one mold, - Till love guides them upward, or downward, I hold. - - I tell you the women who make fervent wives - And sweet tender mothers, had Fate been less fair, - Are the women who might have abandoned their lives - To the madness that springs from and ends in despair. - As the fire on the hearth which sheds brightness around, - Neglected, may level the walls to the ground. - - The world makes grave errors in judging these things, - Great good and great evil are born in one breast. - Love horns us and hoofs us--or gives us our wings, - And the best could be worst, as the worst could be best. - You must thank your own worth for what I grew to be, - For the demon lurked under the angel in me. - - - - - DAWN. - - - Day’s sweetest moments are at dawn; - Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light - Kisses the languid lips of Night, - Ere she can rise and hasten on. - All glowing from his dreamless rest - He holds her closely to his breast, - Warm lip to lip and limb to limb, - Until she dies for love of him. - - - - - PEACE AND LOVE. - - - There are two angels, messengers of light, - Both born of God, who yet are bitterest foes. - No human breast their dual presence knows. - As violently opposed as wrong and right, - When one draws near, the other takes swift flight - And when one enters, thence the other goes. - Till mortal life in the immortal flows, - So must these two avoid each other’s sight. - Despair and hope may meet within one heart, - The vulture may be comrade to the dove! - Pleasure and Pain swear friendship leal and true: - But till the grave unites them, still apart - Must dwell these angels known as Peace and Love. - For only Death can reconcile the two. - - - - - THE INSTRUCTOR. - - - Not till we meet with Love in all his beauty, - In all his solemn majesty and worth, - Can we translate the meaning of life’s duty, - Which God oft writes in cypher at our birth. - - Not till Love comes in all his strength and terror, - Can we read other’s hearts; not till then know - A wide compassion for all human error, - Or sound the quivering depths of mortal woe. - - Not till we sail with him o’er stormy oceans, - Have we seen tempests; hidden in his hand - He holds the keys to all the great emotions; - Till he unlocks them, none can understand. - - Not till we walk with him on lofty mountains, - Can we quite measure heights. And, oh, sad truth! - When once we drink from his immortal fountains, - We bid farewell to the light heart of youth. - - Thereafter our most perfect day will borrow - A dimming shadow from some dreaded night. - So great grows joy it merges into sorrow, - And evermore pain tinctures our delight. - - - - - BLASE. - - - The world has outlived all its passion, - Its men are inane and blase, - Its women mere puppets of fashion; - Life now is a comedy play. - Our Abelard sighs for a season, - Then yields with decorum to fate. - Our Heloise listens to reason, - And seeks a new mate. - - Our Romeo’s flippant emotion - Grows pale as the summer grows old; - Our Juliet proves her devotion - By clasping--a cup filled with gold. - Vain Anthony boasts of his favors - From fair Cleopatra the frail, - And the death of the sorceress savors - Less of asps than of ale. - - With the march of bold civilization, - Great loves and great faiths are down-trod, - They belonged to an era and nation - All fresh with the imprint of God. - High culture emasculates feeling, - The over-taught brain robs the heart, - And the shrine now where mortals are kneeling - Is a commonplace mart. - - Our effeminate fathers and brothers - Keep carefully out of life’s storm, - From the ladylike minds of our mothers - We are taught that to feel is “bad form.” - Our worshipers now and our lovers - Are calmly devout with their brains, - And we laugh at the man who discovers - Warm blood in his veins. - - But you, O twin souls, passion-mated, - Who love as the gods loved of old, - What blundering destiny fated - Your lives to be cast in this mold? - Like a lurid volcanic upheaval, - In pastures prosaic and gray, - You seem with your fervors primeval, - Among us to-day. - - You dropped from some planet of splendor, - Perhaps as it circled afar, - And your constancy, swerveless and tender, - You learned from the course of that star. - Fly back to its bosom, I warn you-- - As back to the ark flew the dove-- - The minions of earth will but scorn you, - Because you can love. - - - - - THE SEA-BREEZE AND THE SCARF. - - - Hung on the casement that looked o’er the main, - Fluttered a scarf of blue; - And a gay, bold breeze paused to flatter and tease - This trifle of delicate hue. - “You are lovelier far than the proud skies are,” - He said with a voice that sighed; - “You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea, - Oh, why do you stay here and hide? - - “You are wasting your life in that dull, dark room - (And he fondled her silken folds), - O’er the casement lean but a little, my Queen, - And see what the great world holds. - How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue, - Cheapens both sea and sky-- - You are far too bright to be hidden from sight, - Come, fly with me, darling--fly.” - - Tender his whisper and sweet his caress, - Flattered and pleased was she, - The arms of her lover lifted her over - The casement out to sea. - Close to his breast she was fondly pressed, - Kissed once by his laughing mouth; - Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave - While the wind went whistling south. - - - - - THREE AND ONE. - - - Sometimes she seems so helpless and so mild, - So full of sweet unreason and so weak, - So prone to some capricious whim or freak; - Now gay, now tearful, and now anger-wild, - By her strange moods of waywardness beguiled - And entertained, I stroke her pretty cheek, - And soothing words of peace and comfort speak; - And love her as a father loves a child. - - Sometimes when I am troubled and sore pressed - On every side by fast advancing care, - She rises up with such majestic air, - I deem her some Olympian goddess-guest, - Who brings my heart new courage, hope, and rest; - In her brave eyes dwells balm for my despair, - And then I seem, while fondly gazing there, - A loving child upon my mother’s breast. - - Again, when her warm veins are full of life, - And youth’s volcanic tidal wave of fire - Sends the swift mercury of her pulses higher, - Her beauty stirs my heart to maddening strife, - And all the tiger in my blood is rife; - I love her with a lover’s fierce desire, - And find in her my dream, complete, entire, - Child, Mother, Mistress--all in one word--Wife. - - - - - INBORN. - - - As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze, - As long as men have eyes. - The sight of beauty to their sense shall be - As mighty winds are to a sleeping sea - When stormy billows rise. - And beauty’s smile shall stir youth’s ardent blood - As rays of sunlight burst the swelling bud; - As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze. - - As long as men have words wherewith to praise, - As long as men have words, - They shall describe the softly-moulded breast, - Where Love and Pleasure make their downy nest, - Like little singing birds; - And lovely limbs, and lips of luscious fire, - Shall be the theme of many a poet’s lyre, - As long as men have words wherewith to praise. - - As long as men have hearts that long for homes, - As long as men have hearts, - Hid often like the acorn in the earth, - Their inborn love of noble woman’s worth, - Beyond all beauty’s arts, - Shall stem the sensuous current of desire, - And urge the world’s best thought to something higher. - As long as men have hearts that long for homes. - - - - - TWO PRAYERS. - - - HIS. - - Dear, when you lift your gentle heart in prayer, - Ask God to send His angel Death to me - Long ere He comes to you, if that may be. - I would dwell with you in that new life there, - But having, man-like, sinned, I must prepare, - By sad probation, ere I hope to see - Those upper realms which are at once thrown free - To sweet, white souls like yours, unstained and fair - Time is so brief on earth, I well might spare - A few short years, if so I could atone - For my marred past, ere you are called above. - My soul would glory in its own despair, - Till purified I met you at God’s throne, - And entered on Eternities of Love. - - - HERS. - - Nay, Love, not so I frame my prayer to God; - I want you close beside me to the end; - If it could be, I would have Him send - A simultaneous death, and let one sod - Cover our two hushed hearts. If you have trod - Paths strange to me on earth, oh, let me wend - My way with yours hereafter: let me blend - My tears with yours beneath the chastening rod. - If you must pay the penalty for sin, - In vales of darkness, ere you pass on higher, - I will petition God to let me go. - I would not wait on earth, nor enter in - To any joys before you. I desire - No glory greater than to share your woe. - - - - - SLEEP AND DEATH. - - - When sleep drops down beside my Love and me, - Although she wears the countenance of a friend, - A jealous foe we prove her in the end. - In separate barques far out on dreamland’s sea, - She lures our wedded souls. Wild winds blow free, - And drift us wide apart by tides that tend - Tow’rd unknown worlds. Not once our strange ways blend - Through the long night, while Sleep looks on in glee. - - O Death! be kinder than thy sister seems, - When at thy call we journey forth some day, - Through that mysterious and unatlased strait, - To lands more distant than the land of dreams; - Close, close together let our spirits stay, - Or else, with one swift stroke annihilate! - - - - - ABSENCE. - - - After you went away, our lovely room - Seemed like a casket whence the soul had fled. - I stood in awful and appalling gloom, - The world was empty and all joy seemed dead. - - I think I felt as one might feel who knew - That Death had left him on the earth alone. - For “all the world” to my fond heart means you; - And there is nothing left when you are gone. - - Each way I turned my sad, tear-blinded gaze, - I found fresh torture to augment my grief; - Some new reminder of the perfect days - We passed together, beautiful as brief. - - There lay a pleasing book that we had read-- - And there your latest gift; and everywhere - Some tender act, some loving word you said, - Seemed to take form and mock at my despair. - - All happiness that human heart may know - I find with you; and when you go away, - Those hours become a winding-sheet of woe, - And make a ghastly phantom of To-day. - - - - - LOVE MUCH. - - - Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it. - Cast sweets into its cup whene’er you can. - No heart so hard, but love at last may win it. - Love is the grand primeval cause of man. - All hate is foreign to the first great plan. - - Love much. Your heart will be led out to slaughter, - On altars built of envy and deceit. - Love on, love on! ’tis bread upon the water; - It shall be cast in loaves yet at your feet, - Unleavened manna, most divinely sweet. - - Love much. Your faith will be dethroned and shaken, - Your trust betrayed by many a fair, false lure. - Remount your faith, and let new trusts awaken. - Though clouds obscure them, yet the stars are pure; - Love is a vital force and must endure. - - Love much. Mens’ souls contract with cold suspicion: - Shine on them with warm love, and they expand. - ’Tis love, not creeds, that from a low condition - Leads mankind up to heights supreme and grand. - Oh, that the world could see and understand! - - Love much. There is no waste in freely giving; - More blessed is it, even, than to receive. - He who loves much, alone finds life worth living, - Love on, through doubt and darkness; and believe - There is no thing which Love may not achieve. - - - - - ONE OF US TWO. - - - The day will dawn, when one of us shall hearken - In vain to hear a voice that has grown dumb. - And morns will fade, noons pale, and shadows darken, - While sad eyes watch for feet that never come. - One of us two must sometime face existence - Alone with memories that but sharpen pain. - And these sweet days shall shine back in the distance, - Like dreams of summer dawns, in nights of rain. - One of us two, with tortured heart half broken, - Shall read long-treasured letters through salt tears, - Shall kiss with anguished lips each cherished token, - That speaks of these loved-crowned, delicious years. - One of us two shall find all light, all beauty, - All joy on earth, a tale forever done; - Shall know henceforth that life means only duty. - Oh, God! Oh, God! have pity on that one. - - - - - HER REVERIE. - - - We were both of us--aye, we were both of us there, - In the self-same house at the play together, - To her it was summer, with bees in the air-- - To me it was winter weather. - - We never had met, and yet we two - Had played in desperate woman fashion, - A game of life, with a prize in view, - And oh! I played with passion. - - ’Twas a game that meant heaven and sweet home-life - For the one who went forth with a crown upon her; - For the one who lost--it meant lone strife, - Sorrow, despair and dishonor. - - Well, she won (yet it was not she-- - I am told that she was a praying woman: - No earthly power could outwit me-- - But hers was superhuman). - - She has the prize, and I have--well, - Memories sweeter than joys of heaven; - Memories fierce as the fires of hell-- - Those unto me were given. - - And we sat in the self-same house last night; - And he was there. It is no error - When I say (and it gave me keen delight) - That his eye met mine with terror. - - When the love we have won at any cost - Has grown familiar as some old story, - Naught seems so dear as the love we lost, - All bright with the Past’s weird glory. - - And tho’ he is fond of that woman, I know-- - I saw in his eyes the brief confession-- - That the love seemed sweeter which he let go - Than that in his possession. - - So I am content. It would be the same - Were I the wife love-crowned and petted, - And she the woman who lost the game-- - Then she were the one regretted. - - And loving him so, I would rather be - The one he let go--and then vaguely desired, - Than, winning him, once in his face to see - The look of a love grown tired. - - - - - TWO SINNERS. - - - There was a man, it was said one time, - Who went astray in his youthful prime. - Can the brain keep cool and the heart keep quiet - When the blood is a river that’s running riot? - And boys will be boys the old folks say, - And the man is the better who’s had his day. - - The sinner reformed; and the preacher told - Of the prodigal son who came back to the fold. - And Christian people threw open the door, - With a warmer welcome than ever before. - Wealth and honor were his to command, - And a spotless woman gave him her hand. - - And the world strewed their pathway with blossoms aboom, - Crying “God bless ladye, and God bless groom!” - - There was a maiden who went astray - In the golden dawn of her life’s young day. - She had more passion and heart than head, - And she followed blindly where fond Love led. - And Love unchecked is a dangerous guide - To wander at will by a fair girl’s side. - - The woman repented and turned from sin, - But no door opened to let her in. - The preacher prayed that she might be forgiven, - But told her to look for mercy--in Heaven. - For this is the law of the earth, we know: - That the woman is stoned, while the man may go. - - A brave man wedded her after all, - But the world said, frowning, “We shall not call.” - - - - - WHAT LOVE IS. - - - Love is the center and circumference; - The cause and aim of all things--’tis the key - To joy and sorrow, and the recompense - For all the ills that have been, or may be. - - Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin, - As sweet as clover-honey in its cell; - Love is the password whereby souls get in - To Heaven--the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell. - - Love is the crown that glorifies; the curse - That brands and burdens; it is life and death - It is the great law of the universe; - And nothing can exist without its breath. - - Love is the impulse which directs the world, - And all things know it and obey its power. - Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled; - The bee that takes the pollen to the flower. - - The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast - To fervent kisses of the amorous sun;-- - Each but obeys creative Love’s behest, - Which everywhere instinctively is done. - - Love is the only thing that pays for birth, - Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God above - This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth, - Pity the hearts that know--or know not--Love! - - - - - CONSTANCY. - - - I will be true. Mad stars forsake their courses, - And led by reckless meteors, turn away - From paths appointed by Eternal Forces; - But my fixed heart shall never go astray. - Like those calm worlds whose sun-directed motion - Is undisturbed by strife of wind or sea, - So shall my swerveless and serene devotion - Sweep on forever, loyal unto thee. - - I will be true. The fickle tide, divided - Between two wooing shores, in wild unrest - May to and fro shift always undecided; - Not so the tide of Passion in my breast. - With the grand surge of some resistless river, - That hurries on, past mountain, vale, and sea, - Unto the main, its waters to deliver, - So my full heart keeps all its wealth for thee. - - I will be true. Light barques may be belated, - Or turned aside by every breeze at play, - While sturdy ships, well-manned and richly freighted, - With fair sales flying, anchor safe in Bay, - Like some firm rock, that, steadfast and unshaken, - Stands all unmoved when ebbing billows flee, - So would my heart stand, faithful if forsaken-- - I will be true, though thou art false to me. - - - - - PHILOSOPHICAL. - - - - - RESOLVE. - - - As the dead year is clasped by a dead December, - So let your dead sins with your dead days lie. - A new life is yours, and a new hope. Remember, - We build our own ladders to climb to the sky. - Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, forgetting - Whatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong. - We waste half our strength in a useless regretting; - We sit by old tombs in the dark too long. - - Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining. - Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next. - Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining. - Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a text. - As each year hurries by let it join that procession - Of skeleton shapes that march down to the Past, - While you take your place in the line of Progression, - With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast. - - I tell you the future can hold no terrors - For any sad soul while the stars revolve, - If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors, - And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve. - It is never too late to begin rebuilding, - Though all into ruins your life seems hurled, - For see how the light of the New Year is gilding - The wan, worn face of the bruised old world. - - - - - OPTIMISM. - - - I’m no reformer; for I see more light - Than darkness in the world; mine eyes are quick - To catch the first dim radiance of the dawn, - And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm. - The fragrance and the beauty of the rose - Delight me so, slight thought I give its thorn; - And the sweet music of the lark’s clear song - Stays longer with me than the night hawk’s cry. - And e’en in this great throe of pain called Life - I find a rapture linked with each despair, - Well worth the price of anguish. I detect - More good than evil in humanity. - Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes, - And men grow better as the world grows old. - - - - - PAIN’S PROOF. - - - I think man’s great capacity for pain - Proves his immortal birthright. I am sure - No merely human mind could bear the strain - Of some tremendous sorrows we endure. - - Art’s most ingenious breastworks fail at length - Beat by the mighty billows of the sea; - Only the God-formed shores possess the strength - To stand before their onslaughts, and not flee. - - The structure that we build with careful toil, - The tempest lays in ruins in an hour; - While some grand tree that springs forth from the soil - Is bended but not broken by its power. - - Unless our souls had root in soil divine - We could not bear earth’s overwhelming strife. - The fiercest pain that racks this heart of mine, - Convinces me of everlasting life. - - - - - IMMORTALITY. - - - Immortal life is something to be earned, - By slow self-conquest, comradeship with Pain, - And patient seeking after higher truths. - We cannot follow our own wayward wills, - And feed our baser appetites, and give - Loose rein to foolish tempers year on year, - And then cry, “Lord forgive me, I believe.” - And straightway bathe in glory. Men must learn - God’s system is too grand a thing for that. - The spark divine dwells in our souls, and we - Can fan it to a steady flame of light, - Whose luster gilds the pathway to the tomb, - And shines on through Eternity, or else - Neglect it till it glimmers down to Death, - And leaves us but the darkness of the grave. - Each conquered passion feeds the living flame; - Each well-born sorrow is a step towards God; - Faith cannot rescue, and no blood redeem - The soul that will not reason and resolve. - Lean on thyself, yet prop thyself with prayer, - (All hope is prayer; who calls it hope no more, - Sends prayer footsore forth over weary wastes, - While he who calls it prayer gives wings to hope,) - And there are spirits, messengers of Love, - Who come at call and fortify our strength. - Make friends with them, and with thine inner self; - Cast out all envy, bitterness, and hate; - And keep the mind’s fair tabernacle pure. - Shake hands with Pain, give greeting unto Grief, - Those angels in disguise, and thy glad soul - From height to height, from star to shining star, - Shall climb and claim blest immortality. - - - - - ANSWERED PRAYERS. - - - I prayed for riches, and achieved success; - All that I touched turned into gold. Alas! - My cares were greater and my peace was less, - When that wish came to pass. - - I prayed for glory, and I heard my name - Sung by sweet children and by hoary men. - But ah! the hurts--the hurts that come with fame - I was not happy then. - - I prayed for Love, and had my heart’s desire. - Through quivering heart and body, and through brain - There swept the flame of its devouring fire, - And but the scars remain. - - I prayed for a contented mind. At length - Great light upon my darkened spirit burst. - Great peace fell on me also, and great strength-- - Oh, had that prayer been first! - - - - - THE LADY OF TEARS. - - - Through valley and hamlet and city, - Wherever humanity dwells, - With a heart full of infinite pity, - A breast that with sympathy swells, - She walks in her beauty immortal. - Each household grows sad as she nears, - But she crosses at length every portal, - The mystical Lady of Tears. - - If never this vision of sorrow - Has shadowed your life in the past, - You will meet her, I know, some to-morrow-- - She visits all hearthstones at last. - To hovel, and cottage, and palace, - To servant and king she appears, - And offers the gall of her chalice-- - The unwelcome Lady of Tears. - - To the eyes that have smiled but in gladness, - To the souls that have basked in the sun, - She seems in her garments of sadness, - A creature to dread and to shun. - And lips that have drank but of pleasure - Grow pallid and tremble with fears, - As she portions the gall from her measure, - The merciless Lady of Tears. - - But in midnight, lone hearts that are quaking, - With the agonized numbness of grief, - Are saved from the torture of breaking, - By her bitter-sweet draught of relief. - Oh, then do all graces enfold her; - Like a goddess she looks and appears, - And the eyes overflow that behold her-- - The beautiful Lady of Tears. - - Though she turns to lamenting, all laughter, - Though she gives us despair for delight, - Life holds a new meaning thereafter, - For those who will greet her aright. - They stretch out their hands to each other, - For Sorrow unites and endears, - The children of one tender mother - The sweet, blessed Lady of Tears. - - - - - THE MASTER HAND. - - - It is something too strange to understand, - How all the chords on the instrument, - Whether sorrowful, blithe, or grand, - Under the touch of your master hand - Were into one melody blent. - Major, minor, everything--all-- - Came at your magic fingers’ call. - - Why! famed musicians had turned in despair - Again and again from those self-same keys; - They mayhap brought forth a simple air, - But a discord always crept in somewhere, - In their fondest efforts to please. - Or a jarring, jangling, meaningless strain - Angered the silence to noisy pain. - - “Out of tune,” they would frown and say; - Or “a loosened key” or “a broken string;” - But sure and certain they were alway, - That no man living on earth could play - Measures more perfect, or bring - Sweeter sounds or a truer air - Out of that curious instrument there. - - And then you came. You swept the scale - With a mighty master’s wonderful art. - You made the minor keys sob and wail, - While the low notes rang like a bell in a gale. - And every chord in my heart, - From the deep bass tones to the shrill ones above, - Joined into that glorious harmony--Love. - - And now, though I live for a thousand years, - On no new chord can a new hand fall. - The chords of sorrow, of pain, of tears, - The chords of raptures and hopes and fears, - I say you have struck them all; - And all the meaning put into each strain - By the Great Composer, you have made plain. - - - - - SECRET THOUGHTS. - - - I hold it true that thoughts are things - Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings, - And that we send them forth to fill - The world with good results--or ill. - - That which we call our secret thought - Speeds to the earth’s remotest spot, - And leaves its blessings or its woes - Like tracks behind it as it goes. - - It is God’s law. Remember it - In your still chamber as you sit - With thoughts you would not dare have known, - And yet make comrades when alone. - - These thoughts have life; and they will fly - And leave their impress by-and-by, - Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned breath - Breathes into homes its fevered breath. - - And after you have quite forgot - Or all outgrown some vanished thought, - Back to your mind to make its home, - A dove or raven, it will come. - - Then let your secret thoughts be fair; - They have a vital part and share - In shaping worlds and molding fate-- - God’s system is so intricate. - - - - - THERE COMES A TIME - - - There comes a time to every mortal being, - Whate’er his station or his lot in life, - When his sad soul yearns for the final freeing - From all this jarring and unceasing strife. - - There comes a time, when, having lost its savor, - The salt of wealth is worthless; when the mind - Grows wearied with the world’s capricious favor, - And sighs for something that it cannot find. - - There comes a time, when, though kind friends are thronging - About our pathway with sweet acts of grace, - We feel a vast and overwhelming longing - For something that we cannot name or place. - - There comes a time, when, with earth’s best love by us, - To feed the heart’s great hunger and desire, - We find not even this can satisfy us; - The soul within us cries for something higher. - - What greater proof need we that we inherit - A life immortal in another sphere? - It is the homesick longing of the spirit - That cannot find its satisfaction here. - - - - - THE WORLD. - - - With noiseless steps good goes its way; - The earth shakes under evil’s tread. - We hear the uproar, and ’tis said, - The world grows wicked every day. - - It is not true. With quiet feet, - In silence, Virtue sows her seeds; - While Sin goes shouting out his deeds, - And echoes listen and repeat. - - But surely as the old world moves, - And circles round the shining sun, - So surely does God’s purpose run, - And all the human race improves. - - Despite bold evil’s noise and stir, - Truth’s golden harvests ripen fast; - The Present far outshines the Past; - Men’s thoughts are higher than they were. - - Who runs may read this truth, I say: - Sin travels in a rumbling car, - While Virtue soars on like a star-- - The world grows better every day. - - - - - NECESSITY. - - - Necessity, whom long I deemed my foe, - Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged dame, - Now I no longer see thy face, I know - Thou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame. - - My best achievements and the fairest flights - Of my winged fancy were inspired by thee; - Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights; - Thy importunings bade me do and be. - - But for thy breath, the spark of living fire - Within me might have smoldered out at length; - But for thy lash which would not let me tire, - I never would have measured my own strength. - - But for thine ofttimes merciless control - Upon my life, that nerved me past despair, - I never should have dug deep in my soul - And found the mine of treasures hidden there. - - And though we walk divided pathways now, - And I no more may see thee, to the end, - I weave this little chaplet for thy brow, - That other hearts may know, and hail thee friend. - - - - - ACHIEVEMENT. - - - Trust in thine own untried capacity - As thou wouldst trust in God Himself. Thy soul - Is but an emanation from the whole. - Thou dost not dream what forces lie in thee, - Vast and unfathomed as the grandest sea. - Thy silent mind o’er diamond caves may roll, - Go seek them--but let pilot will control - Those passions which thy favoring winds can be. - - No man shall place a limit in thy strength; - Such triumphs as no mortal ever gained - May yet be thine if thou wilt but believe - In thy Creator and thyself. At length - Some feet will tread all heights now unattained-- - Why not thine own? Press on; achieve! achieve! - - - - - BELIEF. - - - The pain we have to suffer seems so broad, - Set side by side with this life’s narrow span, - We need no greater evidence that God - Has some diviner destiny for man. - - He would not deem it worth His while to send - Such crushing sorrows as pursue us here, - Unless beyond this fleeting journey’s end - Our chastened spirits found another sphere. - - So small this world! So vast its agonies! - A future life is needed to adjust - These ill-proportioned, wide discrepancies - Between the spirit and its frame of dust. - - So when my soul writhes with some aching grief. - And all my heart-strings tremble at the strain, - My Reason lends new courage to Belief, - And all God’s hidden purposes seem plain. - - - - - WHATEVER IS--IS BEST. - - - I know as my life grows older, - And mine eyes have clearer sight-- - That under each rank wrong, somewhere - There lies the root of Right; - That each sorrow has its purpose, - By the sorrowing oft unguessed, - But as sure as the sun brings morning, - Whatever is--is best. - - I know that each sinful action, - As sure as the night brings shade, - Is somewhere, sometime punished, - Tho’ the hour be long delayed. - I know that the soul is aided - Sometimes by the heart’s unrest, - And to grow means often to suffer-- - But whatever is--is best. - - I know there are no errors, - In the great Eternal plan, - And all things work together - For the final good of man. - And I know when my soul speeds onward, - In its grand Eternal quest, - I shall say as I look back earthward, - Whatever is--is best. - - - - - PEACE AT THE GOAL. - - - From the soul of a man who was homeless - Came the deathless song of home. - And the praises of rest are chanted best - By those who are forced to roam. - - In a time of fast and hunger, - We can talk over feasts divine; - But the banquet done, why, where is the one - Who can tell you the taste of the wine? - - We think of the mountain’s grandeur - As we walk in the heat afar-- - But when we sit in the shadows of it - We think how at rest we are. - - With the voice of the craving passions - We can picture a love to come. - But the heart once filled, lo, the voice is stilled, - And we stand in the silence--dumb. - - - - - THE LAW. - - - Life is a Shylock; always it demands - The fullest usurer’s interest for each pleasure. - Gifts are not freely scattered by its hands; - We make returns for every borrowed treasure. - - Each talent, each achievement, and each gain - Necessitates some penalty to pay. - Delight imposes lassitude and pain, - As certainly as darkness follows day. - - All you bestow on causes or on men, - Of love or hate, of malice or devotion, - Somehow, sometime, shall be returned again-- - There is no wasted toil, no lost emotion. - - The motto of the world is give and take. - It gives you favors--out of sheer goodwill. - But unless speedy recompense you make, - You’ll find yourself presented with its bill. - - When rapture comes to thrill the heart of you, - Take it with tempered gratitude. Remember, - Some later time the interest will fall due. - No year brings June that does not bring December. - - - - - RECOMPENSE. - - - Straight through my heart this fact to-day, - By Truth’s own hand is driven: - God never takes one thing away, - But something else is given. - - I did not know in earlier years, - This law of love and kindness; - I only mourned through bitter tears - My loss, in sorrow’s blindness. - - But, ever following each regret - O’er some departed treasure, - My sad repining heart was met - With unexpected pleasure. - - I thought it only happened so; - But Time this truth has taught me-- - No least thing from my life can go, - But something else is brought me. - - It is the Law, complete, sublime; - And now with Faith unshaken, - In patience I but bide my time, - When any joy is taken. - - No matter if the crushing blow - May for the moment down me, - Still, back of it waits Love, I know, - With some new gift to crown me. - - - - - DESIRE. - - - No joy for which thy hungering heart has panted, - No hope it cherishes through waiting years, - But if thou dost deserve it, shall be granted - For with each passionate wish the blessing nears. - - Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy being - To chord with thy dear hope, and do not tire. - When both in key and rhythm are agreeing, - Lo! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire. - - The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance, - Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb: - Essential to thy soul and thy existence-- - Live worthy of it--call, and it shall come. - - - - - DEATHLESS. - - - There lies in the center of each man’s heart, - A longing and love for the good and pure; - And if but an atom, or larger part, - I tell you this shall endure--endure - After the body has gone to decay-- - Yea, after the world has passed away. - - The longer I live and the more I see - Of the struggle of souls toward the heights above, - The stronger this truth comes home to me: - That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love; - A love so limitless, deep, and broad, - That men have renamed it and called it--God. - - And nothing that ever was born or evolved, - Nothing created by light or force, - But deep in its system there lies dissolved - A shining drop from the Great Love Source; - A shining drop that shall live for aye-- - Though kingdoms may perish and stars decay. - - - - - KEEP OUT OF THE PAST. - - - Keep out of the Past! for its highways - Are damp with malarial gloom; - Its gardens are sere and its forests are drear. - And everywhere molders a tomb. - Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures, - Finds only a rose turned to dust; - And its storehouse of wonderful treasures - Are covered and coated with rust. - - Keep out of the Past. It is haunted: - He who in its avenues gropes, - Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most, - And a skeleton throng of dead hopes. - In place of its beautiful rivers, - Are pools that are stagnant with slime; - And these graves gleaming in a phosphoric light, - Hide dreams that were slain in their prime. - - Keep out of the Past. It is lonely, - And barren and bleak to the view; - Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old-- - Turn, turn to the Present--the New: - To-day leads you up to the hilltops - That are kissed by the radiant sun, - To-day shows no tomb, life’s hopes are in bloom, - And to-day holds a prize to be won. - - - - - THE FAULT OF THE AGE. - - - The fault of the age is a mad endeavor - To leap to heights that were made to climb: - By a burst of strength, of a thought most clever, - We plan to forestall and outwit Time. - - We scorn to wait for the thing worth having; - We want high noon at the day’s dim dawn; - We find no pleasure in toiling and saving, - As our forefathers did in the old times gone. - - We force our roses, before their season, - To bloom and blossom for us to wear; - And then we wonder and ask the reason - Why perfect buds are so few and rare. - - We crave the gain, but despise the getting; - We want wealth--not as reward, but dower; - And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting - Would fell a forest or build a tower. - - To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; - To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight; - Why what can it lead to at last but sinning, - To mental languor and moral blight? - - Better the old slow way of striving, - And counting small gains when the year is done, - Than to use our force and our strength in contriving, - And to grasp for pleasure we have not won. - - - - - DISTRUST. - - - Distrust that man who tells you to distrust: - He takes the measure of his own small soul, - And thinks the world no larger. He who prates - Of human nature’s baseness and deceit - Looks in the mirror of his heart, and sees - His kind therein reflected. Or perchance - The honeyed wine of life was turned to gall - By sorrow’s hand, which brimmed his cup with tears, - And made all things seem bitter to his taste. - Give him compassion! But be not afraid - Of nectared Love, or Friendship’s strengthening draught, - Nor think a poison underlies their sweets. - Look through true eyes--you will discover truth: - Suspect suspicion, and doubt only doubt. - - - - - ARTIST AND MAN. - - - Take thy life better than thy work. Too oft - Our artists spend their skill in rounding soft - Fair curves upon their statues, while the rough - And ragged edges of the unhewn stuff - In their own natures startle and offend - The eye of critic and the heart of friend. - - If in thy too brief day thou must neglect - Thy labor or thy life, let men detect - Flaws in thy work! while their most searching gaze - Can fall on nothing which they may not praise - In thy well chiseled character. The Man - Should not be shadowed by the Artisan! - - - - - MISCELLANEOUS. - - - - - BABYLAND. - - - Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland, - The realm where the dear little darlings stay, - Till the kind storks go, as all men know, - And, oh, so tenderly bring them away? - The paths are winding and past all finding, - By all save the storks who understand - The gates and the highways and the intricate byways - That lead to Babyland. - - All over the Valley of Babyland - Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss; - And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there, - Lie little heads like spools of floss. - With a soothing number the river of slumber - Flows o’er a bedway of silver sand; - And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleeping - Babes of Babyland. - - The path to the Valley of Babyland - Only the kingly, kind storks know; - If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains. - No man sees them come or go. - But an angel maybe, who guards some baby, - Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand, - Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway - That leads to Babyland. - - And there in the Valley of Babyland, - Under the mosses and leaves and ferns, - Like an unfledged starling, they find the darling, - For whom the heart of a mother yearns; - And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightly - In feathers soft as a lady’s hand; - And off with a rockaway step they walk away - Out of Babyland. - - As they go from the Valley of Babyland, - Forth into the world of great unrest, - Sometimes in weeping, he wakes from sleeping - Before he reaches the mother’s breast. - Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him, - Bonniest bird in the bright home band - That o’er land and water, the kind stork brought her - From far off Babyland. - - - - - A FACE. - - - Between the curtains of snowy lace, - Over the way is a baby’s face; - It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee, - And waves its pink little hand at me. - - My heart responds with a lonely cry-- - But in the wonderful By-and-By-- - Out from the window of God’s “To Be,” - That other baby shall beckon to me. - - That ever haunting and longed-for face, - That perfect vision of infant grace, - Shall shine on me in a splendor of light, - Never to fade from my eager sight. - - All that was taken shall be made good; - All that puzzles me understood; - And the wee white hand that I lost, one day, - Shall lead me into the Better Way. - - - - - AN OLD COMRADE. - - - All suddenly between me and the light, - That brightly shone, and warm, - Robed in the pall-like garments of the night, - There rose a shadowy form. - - “Stand back,” I said; “you quite obscure the sun; - What do you want with me?” - “Dost thou not know, then?” quoth the mystic one; - “Look on my face and see!” - - I looked, and, lo! it was my old despair, - Robed in a new disguise; - In blacker garments than it used to wear, - But with the same sad eyes. - - So ghostly were the memories it awoke, - I shrank in fear away. - “Nay, be more kind,” ’twas thus the dark shape spoke, - “For I have come to stay. - - “So long thy feet have trod on sunny heights, - Such joys thy heart has known, - Perchance thou hast forgotten those long nights, - When we two watched alone, - - “Though sweet and dear the pleasures thou hast met, - And comely to thine eye, - Has one of them, in all that bright throng yet, - Been half so true as I? - - “And that last rapture which ensnared thee so - With pleasure twin to pain, - It was the swiftest of them all to go-- - But I--I will remain. - - “Again we two will live a thousand years, - In desperate nights of grief, - That shall refuse the bitter balm of tears, - For thy bruised heart’s relief. - - “Again we two will watch the hopeless dawn - Creep up a lonely sky-- - Again we’ll urge the drear day to be gone, - Yet dread to see it die. - - “Nay, shrink not from me, for I am thy friend, - One whom the Master sent; - And I shall help thee, ere we reach the end, - To find a great content. - - “And I will give thee courage to attain, - The heights supremely fair, - Wherein thou’lt cry, ‘How blessed was my pain! - How God sent my Despair!’ - - - - - ENTRE-ACTE REVERIES. - - - Between the acts while the orchestra played - That sweet old waltz with the lilting measure, - I drifted away to a dear dead day, - When the dance, for me, was the sum of all pleasure; - When my veins were rife with the fever of life, - When hope ran high as an inswept ocean, - And my heart’s great gladness was almost madness, - As I floated off to the music’s motion. - - How little I cared for the world outside! - How little I cared for the dull day after! - The thought of trouble went up like a bubble, - And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter. - Oh! and the beat of it, oh! and the sweet of it-- - Melody, motion, and young blood melted; - The dancers swaying, the players playing, - The air song-deluged and music-pelted. - - I knew no weariness, no, not I-- - My step was as light as the waving grasses - That flutter with ease on the strong-armed breeze, - As it waltzes over the wild morasses. - Life was all sound and swing; youth was a perfect thing; - Night was the goddess of satisfaction. - Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of day! - Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action. - - I dance no more on the music’s wave, - I yield no more to its wildering power, - That time has flown like a rose that is blown, - Yet life is a garden forever in flower. - Though storms of tears have watered the years, - Between to-day and the day departed, - Though trials have met me, and grief’s waves wet me, - And I have been tired and trouble-hearted. - - Though under the sod of a wee green grave, - A great, sweet hope in darkness perished, - Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth drinking, - A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished. - There is deeper pleasure in the slower measure - That Time’s grand orchestra now is playing. - Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer, - And life grows daily more worth the living. - - - - - A PLEA. - - - Columbia, large-hearted and tender, - Too long for the good of your kin - You have shared your home’s comfort and splendor - With all who have asked to come in. - The smile of your true eyes has lighted - The way to your wide-open door. - You have held out full hands, and invited - The beggar to take from your store. - - Your overrun proud sister nations, - Whose offspring you help them to keep, - Are sending their poorest relations, - Their unruly vicious black sheep; - Unwashed and unlettered you take them, - And lo! we are pushed from your knee; - We are governed by laws as they make them, - We are slaves in the land of the free. - - Columbia, you know the devotion - Of those who have sprung from your soil; - Shall aliens, born over the ocean, - Dispute us the fruits of our toil? - Most noble and gracious of mothers, - Your children rise up and demand - That you bring us no more foster brothers, - To breed discontent in the land. - - Be prudent before you are zealous, - Not generous only--but just. - Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealous - Toward those who have outraged your trust. - They jostle and crowd in our places, - They sneer at the comforts you gave. - We say, shut the door in their faces-- - Until they have learned to behave! - - In hearts that are greedy and hateful, - They harbor ill-will and deceit; - They ask for more favors, ungrateful - For those you have poured at their feet. - Rise up in your grandeur, and straightway - Bar out the bold, clamoring mass; - Let sentinels stand at your gateway, - To see who is worthy to pass. - - Give first to your own faithful toilers - The freedom our birthright should claim, - And take from these ruthless despoilers - The power which they use to our shame. - Columbia, too long you have dallied - With foes whom you feed from your store; - It is time that your wardens were rallied, - And stationed outside the locked door. - - - - - THE ROOM BENEATH THE RAFTERS. - - - Sometimes when I have dropped to sleep, - Draped in a soft luxurious gloom, - Across my drowsing mind will creep - The memory of another room, - Where resinous knots in roof boards made - A frescoing of light and shade, - And sighing poplars brushed their leaves - Against the humbly sloping eaves. - - Again I fancy, in my dreams, - I’m lying in my trundle bed; - I seem to see the bare old beams - And unhewn rafters overhead. - The mud wasp’s shrill falsetto hum - I hear again, and see him come - Forth from his dark-walled hanging house, - Dressed in his black and yellow blouse. - - There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred, - And wove into my fair dream’s woof - The chattering of a martin bird, - Or rain-drops pattering on the roof. - Or half awake, and half in fear, - I saw the spider spinning near - His pretty castle where the fly - Should come to ruin by-and-by. - - And there I fashioned from my brain - Youth’s shining structures in the air. - I did not wholly build in vain, - For some were lasting, firm and fair. - And I am one who lives to say - My life has held more gold than gray, - And that the splendor of the real - Surpassed my early dream’s ideal. - - But still I love to wander back - To that old time and that old place; - To tread my way o’er memory’s track, - And catch the early morning grace, - In that quaint room beneath the rafter, - That echoed to my childish laughter; - To dream again the dreams that grew - More beautiful as they came true. - - - - - THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. - - - She was my dream’s fulfilment and my joy, - This lovely woman whom you call your wife. - You sported at your play, an idle boy, - When I first felt the stirring of her life - Within my startled being. I was thrilled - With such intensity of love, it filled - The very universe! But words are vain-- - No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain. - - You smiled in childhood’s slumber while I felt - The agonies of labour; and the nights - I, weeping, o’er the little sufferer knelt, - You, wandering on through dreamland’s fair delights - Flung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew; - While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you. - - She was my heart’s loved idle and my pride. - I taught her all those graces which you praise, - I dreamed of coming years, when at my side - She should lend luster to my fading days, - Should cling to me (as she to you clings now), - The young fruit hanging to the withered bough. - But lo! the blossom was so fair a sight, - You plucked it from me--for your own delight. - - Well, you are worthy of her--oh, thank God-- - And yet I think you do not realize - How burning were the sands o’er which I trod, - To bear and rear this woman you so prize. - It was no easy thing to see her go-- - Even into the arms of the one she worshiped so. - - How strong, how vast, how awful seems the power - Of this new love which fills a maiden’s heart, - For one who never bore a single hour - Of pain for her; which tears her life apart - From all its moorings, and controls her more - Than all the ties the years have held before; - Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace-- - And give the one who bore her--second place! - - She loves me still! and yet, were Death to say, - “Choose now between them!” you would be her choice. - God meant it to be so--it is His way. - But can you wonder if, while I rejoice - In her content, this thought hurts like a knife-- - “No longer necessary to her life!” - - My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet. - Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart, - Because, for her, life’s drama seems complete - Without the mother’s oft-repeated part. - Be patient with me! She was mine so long - Who now is yours. One must indeed be strong, - To meet the loss without the least regret. - And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet. - - - - - AN OLD FAN. - -(TO KITTY. HER REVERIE.) - - - It is soiled and quite passe, - Broken too, and out of fashion, - But it stirs my heart some way, - As I hold it here to-day, - With a dead year’s grace and passion. - Oh, my pretty fan! - - Precious dream and thrilling strain, - Rise up from that vanished season; - Back to heart and nerve and brain - Sweeps the joy as keen as pain, - Joy that asks no cause or reason. - Oh, my dainty fan! - - Hopes that perished in a night - Gaze at me like spectral faces; - Grim despair and lost delight, - Sorrow long since gone from sight-- - All are hiding in these laces. - Oh, my broken fan! - - Let us lay the thing away-- - I am sadder now and older; - Fled the ball-room and the play-- - You have had your foolish day, - And the night and life are colder. - Exit--little fan! - - - - - NO CLASSES! - - - No classes here! Why, that is idle talk. - The village beau sneers at the country boor; - The importuning mendicants who walk - Our cities’ streets despise the parish poor. - - The daily toiler at some noisy loom - Holds back her garments from the kitchen aid. - Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom, - Unconscious of the bow the laundress made. - - The grocer’s daughter eyes the farmer’s lass - With haughty glances; and the lawyer’s wife - Would pay no visits to the trading class, - If policy were not her creed in life. - - The merchant’s son nods coldly at the clerk; - The proud possessor of a pedigree - Ignores the youth whose father rose by work; - The title-seeking maiden scorns all three. - - The aristocracy of blood looks down - Upon the “nouveau riche;” and in disdain, - The lovers of the intellectual frown - On both, and worship at the shrine of brain. - - “No classes here,” the clergyman has said; - “We are one family.” Yet see his rage - And horror when his favorite son would wed - Some pure and pretty player on the stage. - - It is the vain but natural human way - Of vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our worth! - Not till the long-delayed millennial day - Shall we behold “no classes” on God’s earth. - - - - - A GRAY MOOD. - - - As we hurry away to the end, my friend, - Of this sad little farce called existence, - We are sure that the future will bring one thing, - And that is the grave in the distance. - And so when our lives run along all wrong, - And nothing seems real or certain, - We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not) - Of that specter behind the curtain. - - But we haven’t much time to repine or whine, - Or to wound or jostle each other; - And the hour for us each is to-day, I say, - If we mean to assist a brother. - And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth, - But the worry it brings is double; - And all that repays for the strife of life, - Is helping some soul in trouble. - - I tell you, if I could go back the track - To my life’s morning hour, - I would not set forth seeking name or fame, - Or that poor bauble called power. - I would be like the sunlight, and live to give; - I would lend but I would not borrow; - Nor would I be blind and complain of pain, - Forgetting the meaning of sorrow. - - This world is a vaporous jest at best, - Tossed off by the gods in laughter; - And a cruel attempt at wit were it, - If nothing better came after. - It is reeking with hearts that ache and break, - Which we ought to comfort and strengthen, - As we hurry away to the end, my friend, - And the shadows behind us lengthen. - - - - - AT AN OLD DRAWER. - - - Before this scarf was faded, - What hours of mirth it knew! - How gaily it paraded - For smiling eyes to view! - The days were tinged with glory, - The nights too quickly sped, - And life was like a story - Where all the people wed. - - Before this rosebud wilted, - How passionately sweet - The wild waltz swelled and lilted - In time for flying feet! - How loud the bassoons muttered! - The horns grew madly shrill; - And, oh, the vows lips uttered - That hearts could not fulfill. - - Before this fan was broken, - Behind its lace and pearl - What whispered words were spoken-- - What hearts were in a whirl! - What homesteads were selected - In Fancy’s realm of Spain! - What castles were erected, - Without a room for pain! - - When this odd glove was mated, - How thrilling seemed the play! - May be our hearts are sated-- - They tire so soon to-day. - Oh, shut away those treasures, - They speak the dreary truth-- - We have outgrown the pleasures - And keen delights of youth. - - - - - THE OLD STAGE QUEEN. - - - Back in the box by the curtains shaded, - She sits alone by the house unseen; - Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded, - She who was once the people’s queen. - - The curtain rolls up, and she sees before her - A vision of beauty and youth and grace. - Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her, - Silver-throated and fair of face. - - Out of her box she leans and listens; - Oh, is it with pleasure or with despair - That her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens, - While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air? - - She is back again in the Past’s bright splendor-- - When life seemed worth living, and love a truth, - Ere Time had told her she must surrender - Her double dower of fame and youth. - - It is she herself who stands there singing - To that sea of faces that shines and stirs; - And the cheers on cheers that go up ringing - And rousing the echoes--are hers--all hers. - - Just for one moment the sweet delusion - Quickens her pulses and blurs her sight, - And wakes within her that wild confusion - Of joy that is anguish and fierce delight. - - Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleaming - Brightly o’er circle and box and stall. - She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming-- - Her past lies under a funeral pall. - - Her day is dead and her star descended - Never to rise or shine again; - Her reign is over--her Queenship ended-- - A new name is sounded and sung by men. - - All the glitter and glow and splendor, - All the glory of that lost day, - With the friends that seemed true, and the love that seemed tender, - Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet? - - She rises to go. Has the night turned colder? - The new Queen answers to call and shout; - And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder, - Then all unnoticed she passes out. - - - - - FAITH. - - - I will not doubt, though all my ships at sea - Come drifting home with broken masts and sails; - I shall believe the Hand which never fails, - From seeming evil worketh good for me; - And though I weep because those sails are battered, - Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered, - “I trust in thee.” - - I will not doubt, though all my prayers return - Unanswered from the still, white Realm above; - I shall believe it is an all-wise Love - Which has refused those things for which I yearn; - And though at times I cannot keep from grieving, - Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believing - Undimmed shall burn. - - I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain, - And troubles swarm like bees about a hive; - I shall believe the heights for which I strive - Are only reached by anguish and by pain; - And though I groan and tremble with my crosses, - I yet shall see, through my severest losses, - The greater gain. - - I will not doubt; well anchored in the faith, - Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale, - So strong its courage that it will not fail - To breast the mighty unknown sea of Death. - Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit, - “I do not doubt,” so listening worlds may hear it, - With my last breath. - - - - - THE TRUE KNIGHT. - - - We sigh above historic pages, - Brave with the deeds of courtly men, - And wish those peers of middle ages - In our dull day could live again. - And yet no knight or Troubadour began - In chivalry with the American. - - He does not frequent joust or tourney, - And flaunt his lady’s colors there; - But in the tedium of a journey, - He shows that deferential care-- - That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large, - Which makes each woman feel herself his charge. - - He does not challenge foes to duel, - To win his lady’s cast-off glove, - But proves in ways less rash and cruel, - The truth and fervor of his love. - Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien, - He pays his public tribute to his Queen. - - He may not shine with courtly graces, - But yet, his kind, respectful air - To woman, whatsoe’er her place is, - It might be well if kings could share. - So, for the chivalric true gentleman, - Give me, I say, our own American. - - - - - THE CITY. - - - I own the charms of lovely Nature; still, - In human nature more delight I find. - Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill, - I much prefer the voices of my kind. - - I like the roar of cities. In the mart, - Where busy toilers strive for place and gain, - I seem to read humanity’s great heart, - And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain. - - The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait, - The tread of myriad feet, all say to me: - “You are the architect of your own fate; - Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be.” - - I like the jangled music of the loud - Bold bells; the whistle’s sudden shrill reply; - And there is inspiration in a crowd-- - A magnetism flashed from eye to eye. - - My sorrows all seem lightened and my joys - Augmented when the comrade world walks near; - Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise. - Give me the great town’s bustle, strife, and noise - And let who will, hold Nature’s calm more dear. - - - - - WOMAN. - - - Give us that grand word “woman” once again, - And let’s have done with “lady”: one’s a term - Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm, - Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen; - And one’s a word for lackeys. One suggests - The Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dame - Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name. - One word upon its own strength leans and rests; - The other minces tiptoe. Who would be - The perfect woman must grow brave of heart - And broad of soul to play her troubled part - Well in life’s drama. While each day we see - The “perfect lady” skilled in what to do - And what to say, grace in each tone and act - (’Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact), - Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe. - Give the first place then to the nobler phrase, - And leave the lesser word for lesser praise. - - - - - THE SOUL’S FAREWELL TO THE BODY. - - - So we must part forever; and although - I long have beat my wings and cried to go, - Free from your narrow limiting control, - Forth into space, the true home of the soul, - - Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near, - I pause reluctant, finding you so dear. - All joys await me in the realm of God-- - Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod? - - I was your captive, yet you were my slave: - Your prisoner, yet obedience you gave - To all my earnest wishes and commands. - Now to the worm I leave those willing hands - - That toiled for me or held the books I read, - Those feet that trod where’er I wished to tread, - Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breast - On which one loved and loving heart found rest, - - Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen, - Those eyes that were the windows to my prison. - From these, all these, Death’s Angel bids me sever; - Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever! - - I go to my inheritance, and go - With joy that only the freed soul can know; - Yet in my spirit wanderings I trust - I may sometimes pause near your sacred dust. - - - - - THIMBLE ISLANDS. - -(OFF LONG ISLAND SOUND.) - - - Between the shore and the distant sky-lands, - Where a ship’s dim shape seems etched on space, - There lies this cluster of lovely islands, - Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace. - - I look out over the waves and wonder, - Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea? - When the tide runs high they dip down under - Like mirthful bathers who sport in glee. - - When the tide runs low they lift their shoulders - Above the billows and gayly spread - Their soft green garments along the boulders - Of grim gray granite that form their bed. - - Close by the group, in sheltered places, - Many a ship at anchor lies, - And drinks the charm of their smiling faces, - As lovers drink smiles from maidens’ eyes. - - But true to the harsh and stern old ocean, - As maids in a harem are true to one, - They give him all of their hearts’ devotion, - Though wooed forever by moon and sun. - - A ship sails on that has bravely waded - Through foaming billows to sue in vain; - A whip-poor-will flies that has serenaded - And sung unanswered his plaintive strain. - - In the sea’s great arms I see them lying, - Bright and beaming and fond and fair, - While the jealous July day is dying - In a crimson fury of mad despair. - - The desolate moon drifts slowly over, - And covers its face with the lace of a cloud, - While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover, - Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud. - - - - - MY GRAVE. - - - If, when I die, I must be buried, let - No cemetery engulph me--no lone grot, - Where the great palpitating world comes not, - Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet, - It pays its last sad melancholy debt - To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot - Be rather to lie in some much-used spot, - Where human life, with all its noise and fret, - Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels, - With all earth’s sounds of pleasure, commerce, love, - And rush of hurrying feet surge o’er my head. - Even in my grave I shall be one who feels - Close kinship with the pulsing world above; - And too deep silence would distress me, dead. - - - - - REFUTED. - -“Anticipation is sweeter than realization.” - - - It may be, yet I have not found it so. - In those first golden dreams of future fame - I did not find such happiness as came - When toil was crowned with triumph. Now I know - My words have recognition and will go - Straight to some listening heart my early aim - To win the idle glory of a name - Pales like a candle in the noonday’s glow. - - So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed: - Life yields more rapture than did childhood’s fancies, - And each year brings more pleasure than I waited. - Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed, - And, all beyond youth’s passion-hued romances, - Love is more perfect than anticipated. - - - - - THE LOST LAND. - - - There is a story of a beauteous land, - Where fields were fertile and where flowers were bright; - Where tall towers glistened in the morning light, - Where happy children wandered hand in hand, - Where lovers wrote their names upon the sand. - They say it vanished from all human sight, - The hungry sea devoured it in a night. - You doubt the tale? ah, you will understand; - For, as men muse upon that fable old, - They give sad credence always at the last, - However they have caviled at its truth, - When with a tear-dimmed vision they behold, - Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past, - The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth. - - - - - THE SOUTH. - - - A Queen of indolence and idle grace, - Robed in the vestments of a costly gown, - She turns the languor of her lovely face - Upon progression with a lazy frown. - Her throne is built upon a marshy down; - Malarial mosses wreathe her like old lace; - With slim crossed feet, unshod and bare and brown. - She sits indifferent to the world’s swift race. - Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim: - Too languid she for even fear’s alarms, - While frightened nations rally in defence, - She lifts her smiling Creole eyes to him, - And reaching out her shapely unwashed arms, - She clasps her rightful lover--Pestilence. - - - - - A SAILOR’S WIFE. - -(HER MEMORY.) - - - Sun in my lattice, and sun on the sea - (Oh, but the sun is fair), - And a sky of blue and a sea of green, - And a ship with a white, white sail between, - And a light wind blowing free-- - And back from the stern, and forth from the land, - The last farewell of a waving hand. - - Mist on the window and mist on the sea - (Oh, but the mist is gray), - And the weird, tall shape of a spectral mast - Gleams out of the fog like a ghost of my past, - And the old hope stirs in me-- - The old, old hope that warred with doubt, - While the years with the tides surged in and out. - - Rain on my window and rain on the sea - (Oh, but the rain is sad), - And only the dreams of a vanished barque - And a vanished youth shine through the dark, - And torture the night and me. - But somewhere, I think, near some fair strand, - That lost ship lies with its waving hand. - - - - - LIFE’S JOURNEY. - - - As we speed out of youth’s sunny station, - The track seems to shine in the light, - But it suddenly shoots over chasms - Or sinks into tunnels of night. - And the hearts that were brave in the morning - Are filled with repining and fears, - As they pause at the City of Sorrow - Or pass through the Valley of Tears. - - But the road of this perilous journey - The hand of the Master has made; - With all its discomforts and dangers, - We need not be sad or afraid. - Paths leading from light into darkness, - Ways plunging from gloom to despair, - Wind out through the tunnels of midnight - To fields that are blooming and fair. - - Though the rocks and the shadows surround us. - Though we catch not one gleam of the day, - Above us fair cities are laughing, - And dipping white feet in some bay. - And always, eternal, forever, - Down over the hills in the west, - The last final end of our journey, - There lies the Great Station of Rest. - - ’Tis the Grand Central point of all railways, - All roads unite here when they end; - ’Tis the final resort of all tourists, - All rival lines meet here and blend. - All tickets, all mile-books, all passes, - If stolen or begged for or bought, - On whatever road or division, - Will bring you at last to this spot. - - If you pause at the City of Trouble, - Or wait in the Valley of Tears, - Be patient, the train will move onward, - And rush down the track of the years. - Whatever the place is you seek for, - Whatever your game or your quest, - You shall come at the last with rejoicing, - To the beautiful City of Rest. - - You shall store all your baggage of worries, - You shall feel perfect peace in this realm, - You shall sail with old friends on fair waters, - With joy and delight at the helm. - You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens - With those who have loved you the best, - And the hopes that were lost in life’s journey - You shall find in the City of Rest. - - - - - THE DISAPPOINTED. - - - There are songs enough for the hero - Who dwells on the heights of fame; - I sing for the disappointed-- - For those who missed their aim. - - I sing with a tearful cadence - For one who stands in the dark, - And knows that his last, best arrow - Has bounded back from the mark. - - I sing for the breathless runner, - The eager, anxious soul, - Who falls with his strength exhausted, - Almost in sight of the goal; - - For the hearts that break in silence, - With a sorrow all unknown, - For those who need companions, - Yet walk their ways alone. - - There are songs enough for the lovers - Who share love’s tender pain, - I sing for the one whose passion - Is given all in vain. - - For those whose spirit comrades - Have missed them on the way, - I sing, with a heart o’erflowing, - This minor strain to-day. - - And I know the Solar system - Must somewhere keep in space - A prize for that spent runner - Who barely lost the race. - - For the plan would be imperfect - Unless it held some sphere - That paid for the toil and talent - And love that are wasted here. - - - - - FISHING. - - - Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun, - With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes, - While he dips his line in the ocean brine, - Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. - - ’Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess - Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting. - But I dare not move--“Quiet, there, my love!” - Says my Angler, “for I think a monster fish is biting.” - Oh, of course it’s bliss, but how hot it is! - And the rock I’m sitting on grows harder every minute; - Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, - But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it. - - Oh, it’s just the way to pass a July day, - Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming, - But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls - Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming - “Any luck?” I gently ask of the angler at his task, - “There’s something pulling at my line,” he says; - “I’ve almost caught it.” - But when with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, - We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. - - - - - A PIN. - - - Oh, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good, - Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would. - The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet, - Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat. - - And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, - But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. - And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said. - If you seek for what has hurt you--why, you cannot find the head! - - But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain. - If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain! - A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt, - Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh you’re wretched till it’s out. - - She is wonderfully observing--when she meets a pretty girl, - She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl; - And she is so sympathetic to her friend who’s much admired, - She is often heard remarking, “Dear, you look so worn and tired.” - - And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed - The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride, - And she said, “Oh, how becoming!” and then gently added, “it - Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.” - - Then she said, “If you had heard me yester eve, I’m sure, my friend, - You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.” - And she left me with the feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- - That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’t been for her. - - Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way - She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day. - And the hat that was imported (and which cost me half a sonnet), - With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet. - - She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for a thrust. - Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust, - Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin - To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin! - - - - - THE ACTOR. - - - Oh, man, with your wonderful dower, - Oh, woman, with genius and grace, - You can teach the whole world with your power, - If you are but worthy the place. - The stage is a force and a factor - In moulding the thought of the day, - If only the heart of the actor - Is high as the theme of the play. - - No discourse or sermon can reach us - Through feeling to reason like you; - No author can stir us and teach us - With lessons as subtle and true. - Your words and your gestures obeying - We weep or rejoice with your part, - And the player, behind all his playing, - He ought to be great as his art. - - No matter what role you are giving, - No matter what skill you betray, - The everyday life you are living, - Is certain to color the play. - The thoughts we call secret and hidden - Are creatures of malice, in fact. - They steal forth unseen and unbidden, - And permeate motive and act. - - The genius that shines like a comet - Fills only one part of God’s plan, - If the lesson the world derives from it - Is marred by the life of the man. - Be worthy your work if you love it; - The king should be fit for the crown; - Stand high as your art, or above it, - And make us look up and not down. - - - - - ILLOGICAL. - - - She stood beside me while I gave an order for a bonnet. - She shuddered when I said, “And put a bright bird’s wing upon it.” - - A member of the Audubon Society was she; - And cutting were her comments made on worldly folks like me. - - She spoke about the helpless birds we wickedly were harming; - She quoted the statistics, and they really were alarming; - - She said God meant His little birds to sing in trees and skies; - And there was pathos in her voice, and tears were in her eyes. - - “Oh, surely in this beauteous world you can find lovely things - Enough to trim your hats,” she said, “with out the dear birds’ wings.” - - I sat beside her that same day, in her own house at dinner, - Angelic being that she was to entertain a sinner! - - Her well-appointed table groaned beneath the ample spread - Course followed appetizing course, and hunger sated fled; - - But still my charming hostess urged, “Do have a reed-bird, dear, - They are so delicate and sweet at this time of the year.” - - - - - NEW YEAR. - - - I saw on the hills of the morning, - The form of the New Year arise, - He stood like a statue adorning - The world with a background of skies. - There were courage and grace in his beautiful face, - And hope in his glorious eyes. - - “I come from Time’s boundless forever,” - He said, with a voice like a song. - “I come as a friend to endeavor, - I come as a foe to all wrong. - To the sad and afraid I bring promise of aid, - And the weak I will gird and make strong. - - “I bring you more blessings than terrors, - I bring you more sunlight than gloom, - I tear out your page of old errors, - And hide them away in Time’s tomb. - I reach you clean hands, and lead on to the lands - Where the lilies of peace are in bloom.” - - - - - NEW YEAR. - - - As the old year sinks down in Time’s ocean, - Stand ready to launch with the new, - And waste no regrets, no emotion, - As the masts and the spars pass from view. - Weep not if some treasures go under, - And sink in the rotten ship’s hold, - That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder - May bring you more wealth than the old. - - For the world is forever improving, - All the past is not worth one to-day, - And whatever deserves our true loving. - Is stronger than death or decay. - Old love, was it wasted devotion? - Old friends, were they weak or untrue? - Well, let them sink there in mid ocean, - And gaily sail on to the new. - - Throw overboard toil misdirected. - Throw overboard ill-advised hope, - With aims which, your soul has detected, - Have self as their centre and scope. - Throw overboard useless regretting - For deeds which you cannot undo, - And learn the great art of forgetting - Old things which embitter the new. - - Sing who will of dead years departed, - I shroud them and bid them adieu, - And the song that I sing, happy-hearted, - Is a song of the glorious new. - - - - - NOW. - - - One looks behind him to some vanished time - And says, “Ah, I was happy then, alack! - I did not know it was my life’s best prime-- - Oh, if I could go back!” - - Another looks, with eager eyes aglow, - To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn, - And sighs, “I shall be happy then, I know; - Oh, let me hurry on.” - - But I--I look out on my fair To-day; - I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow. - Here with the perfect present let me stay, - For I am happy now! - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Poems of Pleasure, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PLEASURE *** - -***** This file should be named 51614-0.txt or 51614-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/1/51614/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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