Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Wilcox Pages1 2 3

Upon the Sand
Worth While
Progress
My Ships
The Winds of Fate
Voice of the Voiceless
The Undiscovered Country
Thanksgiving
Life
The Traveled Man
Will
Life's Harmonies
Which are You?
Solitude
Bohemia
Penalty
Lines from "Maurine"
The Room Beneath the Rafters
My Comrade
At an Old Drawer
My Vision
A Golden Day
The King and the Siren

Upon the Sand

All love that has not friendship for its base,
Is like a mansion built upon the sand.
Though brave its walls as any in the land,
And its tall turrets lift their heads in grace;
Though skillful and accomplished artists trace
Most beautiful designs on every hand,
And gleaming statues in dim niches stand,
And fountains play, in some flow'r-hidden place:
Yet, when from the frowning east a sudden gust
Of adverse fate is blown, or sad rains fall
Day in, day out, against its yielding wall,
Lo! the fair structure crumbles to the dust.
Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe,
Needs friendship's solid masonwork below.

Worth While

It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent,
When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
Is luring your soul away;
But it's only a negative virtue
Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor of earth
Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered to-day;
They make up the sum of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth
For we find them but once in a while

Progress

Let there be many windows to your soul,
That all the glory of the universe
May beautify it. Not the narrow pane
Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays
That shine from countless sources. Tear away
The blinds of superstition; let the light
Pour through fair windows broad as truth itself
And high as God.
Why should the spirit peer
Through some priest-curtained orifice, and grope
Along dim corridors of doubt, when all
The splendor from unfathomed seas of space
Might bathe it with the golden waves of Love?
Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths;
Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,
And throw your soul wide open to the light
Of Reason and of knowledge. Tune your ear
To all the wordless music of the stars,
And to the voice of Nature; and your heart
Shall turn to truth and goodness as the plant
Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands
Reach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights,
And all the forces of the firmament
Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid
To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.

My Ships

If all the ships I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
From sunny lands, and lands of cold,
Ah well! the harbor could not hold
So many sails as there would be
If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea,
And brought their precious freight to me,
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great
As any king who sits in state,
So rich the treasures that would be
In half my ships now at sea.

If just one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,
For if the others all went down
Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,
If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship were down at sea,
And all the others came to me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
With glory, honor, riches, gold,
The poorest soul on earth I’d be
If that one ship came not to me.

O skies be calm! O winds blow free--
Blow all my ships safe home to me.
But if thou sendest some awrack
To never more come sailing back,
Send any--all that skim the sea--
But bring my love-ship home to me.

The Winds of Fate

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
'Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.
Like the winds of the sea are the ways of life:
As we voyage along through life:
'Tis the set of a soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

Voice of the Voiceless

The Undiscovered Country

MAN has explored all countries and all lands,
And made his own the secrets of each clime.
Now, ere the world has fully reached its prime,
The oval earth lies compassed with steel bands;
The seas are slaves to ships that touch all strands,
And even the haughty elements sublime
And bold, yield him their secrets for all time,
And speed like lackeys forth at his commands.

Still, though he search from shore to distant shore,
And no strange realms, no unlocated plains
Are left for his attainment and control,
Yet is there one more kingdom to explore.
Go, know thyself, O man! there yet remains
The undiscovered country of thy soul!

Thanksgiving

WE walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.

There's not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past's wide measure.

But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o'er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

Life

ALL in the dark we grope along,
And if we go amiss
We learn at least which path is wrong,
And there is gain in this.

We do not always win the race,
By only running right,
We have to tread the mountain's base
Before we reach its height.

The Christs alone no errors made;
So often had they trod
The paths that lead through light and shade,
They had become as God.

As Krishna, Buddha, Christ again,
They passed along the way,
And left those mighty truths which men
But dimly grasp to-day.

But he who loves himself the last
And knows the use of pain,
Though strewn with errors all his past,
He surely shall attain.

Some souls there are that needs must taste
Of wrong, ere choosing right;
We should not call those years a waste
Which led us to the light.

The Traveled Man

SOMETIMES I wish the railroads all were torn out,
The ships all sunk among the coral strands.
I am so very weary, yea, so worn out,
With tales of those who visit foreign lands.

When asked to dine, to meet these traveled people,
My soup seems brewed from cemetery bones.
The fish grows cold on some cathedral steeple,
I miss two courses while I stare at thrones.

I'm forced to leave my salad quite untasted,
Some musty, moldy temple to explore.
The ices, fruit and coffee all are wasted
While into realms of ancient art I soar.

I'd rather take my chance of life and reason,
If in a den of roaring lions hurled
Than for a single year, ay, for one season,
To dwell with folks who'd traveled round the world.

So patronizing are they, so oppressive,
With pity for the ones who stay at home,
So mighty is their knowledge, so aggressive,
I ofttimes wish they had not ceased to roam.

They loathe the new, they quite detest the present;
They revel in a pre-Columbian morn;
Just dare to say America is pleasant,
And die beneath the glances of their scorn.

They are increasing at a rate alarming,
Go where I will, the traveled man is there.
And now I think that rustic wholly charming
Who has not strayed beyond his meadows fair.

Will

YOU will be what you will to be;
Let failure find its false content
In that poor word "environment,"
But spirit scorns it, and is free,

It masters time, it conquers space,
It cows that boastful trickster Chance,
And bids the tyrant Circumstance
Uncrown and fill a servant's place.

The human Will, that force unseen,
The offspring of a deathless Soul,
Can hew the way to any goal,
Though walls of granite intervene.

Be not impatient in delay,
But wait as one who understands;
When spirit rises and commands,
The gods are ready to obey.

The river seeking for the sea
Confronts the dam and precipice,
Yet knows it cannot fail or miss;
You will be what you will to be!

Life's Harmonies

LET no man pray that he know not sorrow,
Let no soul ask to be free from pain,
For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow,
And the moment's loss is the lifetime's gain.

Through want of a thing does its worth redouble,
Through hunger's pangs does the feast content,
And only the heart that has harbored trouble,
Can fully rejoice when joy is sent.

Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics
Of grief, and yearning, and need, and strife,
For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonies,
Are found in the minor strains of life.

Which are You?

THERE are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,
The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,
You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,
Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,
Are always divided in just these two classes.

And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,
There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load,
Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share
Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
      Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
      But has trouble enough of it's own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
      Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
      But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
      Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
      But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
      Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
      But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
      Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
      But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
      For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
      Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Bohemia

BOHEMIA, o'er thy unatlassed borders
     How many cross, with half-reluctant feet,
And unformed fears of dangers and disorders,
     To find delights, more wholesome and more sweet
     Than ever yet were known to the "elite."

Herein can dwell no pretence and no seeming;
     No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere,
Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming.
     The shores of the ideal world, from here,
     Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.

We have no use for formal codes of fashion;
     No "Etiquette f Courts" we emulate;
We know it needs sincerity and passion
     To carry out the plans of God, or fate;
     We do not strive to seem inanimate.

We call no time lost that we give to pleasure;
     Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great sea;
We cast out no vain plummet-line to measure
     Imagined depths of that unknown To-Be,
     But grasp the Now, and fill it full of glee.

All creeds have room here, and we all together
     Devoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine;
But he who dwells once in thy golden weather,
     Bohemia--sweet, lovely land of mine--
     Can find no joy outside thy border-line.

Penalty

BECAUSE of the fullness of what I had,
     All that I have seems poor and vain.
If I had not been happy, I were not sad--
     Tho' my salt is savorless, why complain?

From the ripe perfection of what was mine,
     All that is mine seems worse than naught;
Yet I know, as I sit in the dark and pine,
   No cup can be drained which has not been fraught.

From the throb and the thrill of a day that was,
     The day that now is seems dull with gloom;
Yet I bear the dullness and darkness, because
     'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.

From the royal feast that of old was spread
     I am starved on the diet that now is mine;
Yet, I could not turn hungry from water and bread
     If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.

Lines from "Maurine"

I'D rather have my verses win
     A place in common people's hearts,
Who, toiling through the strife and din
     Of life's great thoroughfares, and marts,

May read some line my hand has penned;
     Some simple verse, not fine, or grand,
     But what their hearts can understand
And hold me henceforth as a friend,--

I'd rather win such quiet fame
   Than by some fine thought, bolished so
     But those of learned minds would know,
     Just what the meaning of my song,--
To have the critics sound my name
     In high-flown praises, loud and long.

I sing not for the critic's ear,
But for the masses. If they hear
Despite the turmoil, noise, and strife
Some least low note that gladdens life,
I shall be wholly satisfied,
Though critics to the end deride.

The Room Beneath the Rafters

SOMETIMES when I have dropped asleep,
     Draped in soft luxurious gloom,
Across my drowsy mind will creep
     The memory of another room,
Where resinous knots in roofboards 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 hornet's shrill falsetto hum
I hear again, and see him come
Forth from his mud-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 good 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 thread my way o'er Memory's track,
     And catch the early morning's 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.

My Comrade

OUT from my window westward
     I turn full oft my face;
But the mountains rebuke the vision
     That would encompass space;
They lift their lofty foreheads
     To the kiss of the clouds above,
And ask, "With all our glory,
Can we not win your love?"

I answer, "No, oh mountains!
     I see that you are grand;
But you have not the breadth and beauty
     Of the fields in my own land;
You narrow my range of vision
     And you even shut from me
The voice of my old comrade,
     The West Wind wild and free."

But to-day I climbed the mountains
     On the back of a snow-white steed,
And the West Wind came to greet me--
     He flew on the wings of speed.
His charger, and mine that bore me,
     Went gaily neck to neck,
Till the town in the valley belkow us
     Looked like a small, dark speck.

And oh! what tales he whispered
     As he rode there by me,
Of friends whose smiling faces
     I am so soon to see.
And the mountains frowned in anger,
     Because I balked their spite,
And met my old-time comrade
     There on their very height;

But I laughed up in their faces,
     As I rode slowly back,
While the Wind went faster and faster,
     Like a race-horse on the track.

At an Old Drawer

BEFORE this scarf was faded,
     What hours of mirth it knew;
How gayly it paraded
     From 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 smelled 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;
Maybe our hearts are sated--
     We tire so soon to-day.
O, thrust away these treasures,
     They speak the dreary truth;
We have outgrown the pleasures
     And keen delights of youth.

My Vision

WHEREVER my feet may wander
     Wherever I chance to be,
There comes, with the coming of even' time
     A vision sweet to me.
I see my mother sitting
     In the old familiar place,
And she rocks to the tune her needles sing,
     And thinks of an absent face.

I can hear the roar of the city
     AAbout me now as I write;
But over an hundred miles of snow
     My thought-steeds fly tonight,
To the dear little cozy cottage,
     And the room where mother sits,
And slowly rocks in her easy chair
     And thinks of me as she knits.

Sometimes with the merry dancers
     When my feet are keeping time,
And my heart beats high, as young hearts will,
     To the music's rhythmic chime.
My spirit slips over the distance
     Over the glitter and whirl,
To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits,
     And thinks of her "little girl."

And when I listen to voices that flatter,
     And smile, as women do,
To whispered words that may be sweet,
     But are not always true;
I think of the sweet, quaint picture
     Afar in quiet ways,
And I know one smile of my mother's eyes
     Is better than all their praise.

And I know I can never wander
     Far from the path of right,
Though snares are set for a woman's feet
     In places that seem most bright.
For the vision is with me always,
     Wherever I chance to be,
Of mother sitting, rocking, and knitting,
     Thinking and praying for me.

A Golden Day

THE subtle beauty of this day
     Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
     And every breeze sings, "all is well."
I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"
     My heart replies, "I do not know."

Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,
     Today is joy undimmed, complete;
In tears or pain we have no part;
     The act of breathing is so sweet,
We care no higher joy to name.
     What reck we now of wealth or fame?

The past--what matters it to me?
     The pain it gave has passed away.
The future--that I cannot see!
     I care for nothing save today--
This is a respite from all care,
     And trouble flies--I know not where.

Go on, oh noisy, restless life!
     Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!
I have no part in aught of strife;
     I do not want your vain delights.
The day wraps round me like a spell
     And every breeze sings, "All is well."

The King and the Siren

THE harsh King--Winter--sat upon the hills,
     And reigned and ruled the earth right royally.
He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills--
     "I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he,
"But a stern monarch, born to rule, and reign;
     And I'll show my power to the end.
The summer's flowery retinue I've slain,
     And taken the bold, free North Wind for my friend.

"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were,
     With their vast troops of flowers, birds and bees,
Soft winds, that made the long green grasses stir--
     They lost their own identity in things like these!
I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all!
     And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand.
The trusty North Wind answers to my call,
And breathes this icy breath upon the land."

The Siren--South Wind--listening the while,
     Now floated airily across the lea.
"Oh King!" she cried, with tender tone and smile,
     "I come to do all homage unto thee.
In all the sunny region, whence I came,
     I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand!
Thine is a well deserved, unrivaled fame;
     I kiss, in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."

Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face.
     He listened wrapt, to her soft-whispered praise.
She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace.
     "Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raise
But songs of thy unrivaled splendor! Lo!
     How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine!
I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for Oh,
     Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."

The rain King listened, in a trance of bliss,
     To this most sweet-voiced Siren from the South,
She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss
     Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth.
She hung upon his breast, she pressed his cheek,
     And he was nothing loth to hold her there,
While she such tender, loving words did speak,
     And combed his white locks with her fingers fair.

And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles,
     And stole his strength, with every kiss she gave,
And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles,
     And with her tender words she dug his grave;
And then she left him, old, and weak, and blind,
     And unlocked all the rivers, lakes, and rills,
While the queen Spring, with her whole troop behind,
     Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came o'er the hills.