Chapter I: Front Matter

CUSTER

AND

OTHER POEMS

BY

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

Author of "Poems of Passion," "Maurine," "Poems of Pleasure," "How Salvator Won," "The Beautiful Land of Nod," "An Erring Woman's Love," "Men, Women and Emotions," Etc.

CHICAGO:
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY.

Published 1896,

By

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

Preface.

"Let such teach others, who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well."

--POPE.

[Transcriber's Note: BOLD characters are denoted by enclosing them with =...= and ITALIC characters are denoted by enclosing them with _..._ ]

=CONTENTS=

=PAGE=

The World's Need 7

High Noon 8

Transformation 10

Thought-Magnets 12

Smiles 13

The Undiscovered Country 15

The Universal Route 16

Earthly Pride 17

Unanswered Prayers 18

Thanksgiving 20

A Maiden to Her Mirror 22

The Kettle 23

Contrasts 25

Thy Ship 26

The Tryst 28

Life 31

A Marine Etching 32

The Duel 33

"Love Thyself Last" 35

Christmas Fancies 37

The River 40

Sorry 42

The Old Wooden Cradle 44

Ambition's Trail 46

The Traveled Man 47

Uncontrolled 49

The Tulip Bed at Greeley Square 50

Will 52

To An Astrologer 53

The Tendril's Faith 55

The Times 56

The Question 57

Sorrow's Uses 58

If 59

Which Are You? 60

The Creed To Be 62

Music in the Flat 64

Inspiration 67

The Wish 68

Three Friends 69

You Never Can Tell 71

Here and Now 72

Unconquered 74

All That Love Asks 75

Does It Pay 77

Sestina 78

The Optimist 80

The Pessimist 81

The Hammock's Complaint 82

Life's Harmonies 83

Preaching vs. Practice 84

An Old Man to His Sleeping Young Bride 85

I Am 87

Two Nights 89

Preparation 91

Custer 93

=The World's Need=

So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind,
Is all the sad world needs.

=High Noon=

Time's finger on the dial of my life Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark, Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light. Long life is sadder than an early death. We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink How brief the past, the future still more brief, Calls on to action, action! Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Have I done nobly? Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame. Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn. Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls So pity may shine through them.

Looking back, My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones That led the way to knowledge of the truth And made me value virtue; sorrows shine In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years, Where lie forgotten pleasures.

Looking forth, Out to the western sky still bright with noon, I feel well spurred and booted for the strife That ends not till Nirvana is attained.

Battling with fate, with men and with myself, Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon, Three things I learned, three things of precious worth To guide and help me down the western slope. I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save. To pray for courage to receive what comes, Knowing what comes to be divinely sent. To toil for universal good, since thus And only thus can good come unto me. To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have To those who have not, this alone is gain.

=Transformation=

She waited in a rose-hued room;
A wanton-hearted creature she,
But beautiful and bright to see
As some great orchid just in bloom.

Upon wide cushions stretched at ease
She lolled in garments filmy fine,
Which but enhanced each rounded line;
A living picture, framed to please.

A bold electric eye of light
Leered through its ruddy screen of lace
And feasted on her form and face
As some wine-crimsoned roué might.

From wall and niche, nude nymph beguiled
Fair goddesses of world-wide fame,
But Psyche's self was put to shame
By one who from the cushions smiled.

Exotic blossoms from a vase
Their sweet narcotic breath exhaled;
The lights, the objects round her paled--
She lost the sense of time and place.

She seemed to float upon the air,
Untrammeled, unrestricted, free;
And rising from a vapory sea
She saw a form divinely fair.

A beauteous being in whose face
Shone all things sweet and true and good.
The innocence of maidenhood,
The motherhood of all the race.

The warmth which comes from heavenly fire,
The strength which leads the weaker man
To climb to God's Eternal plan
And conquer and control desire.

She shook as with a mighty awe,
For, gazing on this shape which stood
Embodying all true womanhood,
She knew it was _herself_ she saw.

She woke as from a dream. But when
The laughing lover, light and bold
Came with his talk of wine and gold
He gazed, grew silent, gazed again;

Then turned abashed from those calm eyes
Where lurked no more the lure to sin.
Her higher self had entered in,
Her path led now to Paradise.

=Thought-Magnets=

With each strong thought, with every earnest longing
For aught thou deemest needful to thy soul,
Invisible vast forces are set thronging
Between thee and that goal.

'Tis only when some hidden weakness alters
And changes thy desire, or makes it less,
That this mysterious army ever falters
Or stops short of success.

Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure
Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel;
And its attainment hangs but on the measure
Of what thy soul can feel.

=Smiles=

Smile a little, smile a little,
As you go along,
Not alone when life is pleasant,
But when things go wrong.
Care delights to see you frowning,
Loves to hear you sigh;
Turn a smiling face upon her,
Quick the dame will fly.

Smile a little, smile a little,
All along the road;
Every life must have its burden,
Every heart its load.
Why sit down in gloom and darkness,
With your grief to sup?
As you drink Fate's bitter tonic,
Smile across the cup.

Smile upon the troubled pilgrims
Whom you pass and meet;
Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms
Oft for weary feet.

Do not make the way seem harder
By a sullen face,
Smile a little, smile a little,
Brighten up the place.

Smile upon your undone labor;
Not for one who grieves
O'er his task, waits wealth or glory;
He who smiles achieves.
Though you meet with loss and sorrow
In the passing years,
Smile a little, smile a little,
Even through your tears.

=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!

=The Universal Route=

As we journey along, with a laugh and a song,
We see, on youth's flower-decked slope,
Like a beacon of light, shining fair on the sight,
The beautiful Station of Hope.

But the wheels of old Time roll along as we climb,
And our youth speeds away on the years;
And with hearts that are numb with life's sorrows we come
To the mist-covered Station of Tears.

Still onward we pass, where the milestones, alas!
Are the tombs of our dead, to the West,
Where glitters and gleams, in the dying sunbeams,
The sweet, silent Station of Rest.

All rest is but change, and no grave can estrange
The soul from its Parent above;
And, scorning the rod, it soars back to its God,
To the limitless City of Love.

=Earthly Pride=

How baseless is the mightiest earthly pride, The diamond is but charcoal purified, The lordliest pearl that decks a monarch's breast Is but an insect's sepulchre at best.

=Unanswered Prayers=

Like some school master, kind in being stern, Who hears the children crying o'er their slates And calling, "Help me master!" yet helps not, Since in his silence and refusal lies Their self-development, so God abides Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf To any cry sent up from earnest hearts, He hears and strengthens when He must deny. He sees us weeping over life's hard sums But should He give the key and dry our tears What would it profit us when school were done And not one lesson mastered?

What a world Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills As lie in human hearts. Should our desires Voiced one by one in prayer ascend to God And come back as events shaped to our wish What chaos would result!

In my fierce youth I sighed out breath enough to move a fleet Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons Which were denied; and that denial bends My knee to prayers of gratitude each day Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers I rose alway regirded for the strife And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart, That which thou pleadest for may not be given But in the lofty altitude where souls Who supplicate God's grace are lifted there Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot Which is not elsewhere found.

=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.

=A Maiden To Her Mirror=

He said he loved me! Then he called my hair Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow, My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow; And swore my round, full throat would bring despair To Venus or to Psyche.

Time and care
Will fade these locks; the merry god, I trow,
Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow.
How will it be when I, no longer fair,
Plead for his kiss with cheeks whence long ago
The early snowflakes melted quite away,
The rose leaf died--and in whose sallow clay
Lie the deep sunken tracks of life's gaunt crow?

When this full throat shall wattle fold on fold,
Like some ripe peach left drying on a wall,
Or like a spent accordion, when all
Its music has exhaled--will love grow cold?

=The Kettle=

There's many a house of grandeur,
With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
And does not prove a home.
_I_ do not ask for splendor
To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask--a kitchen
Where the kettle's always hot.

If things are not all ship-shape,
I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
Does not my nerves upset.
But _one_ thing is essential,
Or seems so to my thought,
And that's a tidy kitchen
Where the kettle's always hot.

In my Aunt Hattie's household,
Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
You'll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen--
The very homiest spot--
The kettle's always singing,
The water's always hot.

And if you have a headache,
Whate'er the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
To get your cup of tea.
I don't know how she does it--
Some magic she has caught--
For the kitchen's cool in summer,
Yet the kettle's always hot.

Oh, there's naught else so dreary
In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
And the water would be hot.

=Contrasts=

I see the tall church steeples,
They reach so far, so far,
But the eyes of my heart see the world's great mart,
Where the starving people are.

I hear the church bells ringing
Their chimes on the morning air;
But my soul's sad ear is hurt to hear
The poor man's cry of despair.

Thicker and thicker the churches,
Nearer and nearer the sky
But alack for their creeds while the poor man's needs
Grow deeper as years roll by.

=Thy Ship=

Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored The priceless riches of all climes and lands, Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport, And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?

Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed Lies all the wealth of this vast universe-- Yea, lies some part of God's omnipotence The legacy divine of every soul. Thy will, O man, thy will is that great ship, And yet behold it drifting here and there-- One moment lying motionless in port, Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung,

Then drying on the sands, and yet again Sent forth on idle quests to no-man's land To carry nothing and to nothing bring; Till worn and fretted by the aimless strife And buffeted by vacillating winds It founders on a rock, or springs aleak With all its unused treasures in the hold.

Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel And steer to knowledge, glory and success. Great mariners have made the pathway plain For thee to follow; hold thou to the course Of Concentration Channel, and all things Shall come in answer to thy swerveless wish As comes the needle to the magnet's call, Or sunlight to the prisoned blade of grass That yearns all winter for the kiss of spring.

=The Tryst=

Just when all hope had perished in my soul, And balked desire made havoc with my mind, My cruel Ladye suddenly grew kind, And sent these gracious words upon a scroll: "When knowing Night her dusky scarf has tied Across the bold, intrusive eyes of day, Come as a glad, triumphant lover may, No longer fearing that he be denied."

I read her letter for the hundredth time, And for the hundredth time my gladdened sight Blurred with the rapture of my vast delight, And swooned upon the page. I caught the chime Of far off bells, and at each silver note My heart on tiptoe pressed its eager ear Against my breast; it was such joy to hear The tolling of the hour of which she wrote.

The curious day still lingered in the skies And watched me as I hastened to the tryst. And back, beyond great clouds of amethyst, I saw the Night's soft, reassuring eyes. "Oh, Night," I cried, "dear Love's considerate friend, Haste from the far, dim valleys of the west, Rock the sad striving earth to quiet rest, And bid the day's insistent vigil end."

Down brooding streets, and past the harbored ships The Night's young handmaid, Twilight, walked with me. A spent moon leaned inertly o'er the sea; A few, pale, phantom stars were in eclipse. There was the house, My Ladye's sea-girt bower All draped in gloom, save for one taper's glow, Which lit the path, where willing feet would go. There was the house, and this the promised hour.

The tide was out; and from the sea's salt path Rose amorous odors, filtering through the night And stirring all the senses with delight; Sweet perfumes left since Aphrodite's bath. Back in the wooded copse, a whip-poor-will Gave love's impassioned and impatient call. On pebbled sands I heard the waves kiss fall, And fall again, so hushed the hour and still.

Light was my knock upon the door, so light, And yet the sound seemed rude. My pulses beat So loud they drowned the coming of her feet The arrow of her taper pierced the gloom-- The portal closed behind me. She was there-- Love on her lips and yielding in her eyes And but the sea to hear our vows and sighs. She took my hand and led me up the stair.

=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.

=A Marine Etching=

A yacht from its harbor ropes pulled free,
And leaped like a steed o'er the race track blue,
Then up behind her, the dust of the sea,
A gray fog drifted, and hid her from view.

=The Duel=

Oh many a duel the world has seen
That was bitter with hate, that was red with gore,
But I sing of a duel by far more cruel
Than ever by poet was sung before.
It was waged by night, yea by day and by night,
With never a pause or halt or rest,
And the curious spot where this battle was fought
Was the throbbing heart in a woman's breast.

There met two rivals in deadly strife,
And they fought for this woman so pale and proud.
One was a man in the prime of life,
And one was a corpse in a moldy shroud;
One wrapped in a sheet from his head to his feet,
The other one clothed in worldly fashion;
But a rival to dread is a man who is dead,
If he has been loved in life with passion.

The living lover he battled with sighs,
He strove for the woman with words that burned,
While stiff and stark lay the corpse in the dark,
And silently yearned and yearned and yearned.
One spoke of the rapture that life still held
For hearts that yielded to love's desire,
And one through the cold grave's earthy mold
Sent thoughts of a past that were fraught with fire.

The living lover seized hold of her hands--
"You are mine," he cried, "and we will not part!"
But she felt the clutch of the dead man's touch
On the tense-drawn strings of her aching heart.
Yet the touch was of ice, and she shrank with fear--
Oh! the hands of the dead are cold, so cold--
And warm were the arms that waited near
To gather her close in their clinging fold.

And warm was the light in the living eyes,
But the eyes of the dead, how they stare and stare!
With sudden surrender she turned to the tender
And passionate lover who wooed her there.
Farewell to sorrow, hail, sweet to-morrow!
The battle was over, the duel was done.
They swooned in the blisses of love's fond kisses,
And the dead man stared on in the dark alone.

="Love Thyself Last"=

Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty
To those who walk beside thee down life's road;
Make glad their days by little acts of beauty,
And help them bear the burden of earth's load.

Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger,
Who staggers 'neath his sin and his despair;
Go lend a hand, and lead him out of danger,
To hights where he may see the world is fair.

Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee
Are filled with Spirit Forces, strong and pure.
And fervently, these faithful friends shall love thee:
Keep thou thy watch o'er others and endure.

Love thyself last; and oh, such joy shall thrill thee,
As never yet to selfish souls was given.
Whate'er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee,
And earth shall seem the ante-room of Heaven.

Love thyself last, and them shall grow in spirit
To see, to hear, to know, and understand.
The message of the stars, lo, thou shall hear it,
And all God's joys shall be at thy command.

=Christmas Fancies=

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago. And etched on vacant places, Are half forgotten faces Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know-- When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.

Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near, We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear, That continent Elysian Long vanished from our vision, Youth's lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear, Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.

When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth, The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth, And draws from youth's recesses Some memory it possesses, And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth, When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.

When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss. Not all the seers and sages With wisdom of the ages Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.

For life was made for loving, and love alone repays, As passing years are proving for all of Time's sad ways. There lies a sting in pleasure, And fame gives shallow measure, And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days, For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.

When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes, And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes, Let Love, the world's beginning, End fear and hate and sinning; Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshiped in all climes When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.

=The River=

I am a river flowing from God's sea Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me; I cannot change it; mine alone the toil To keep the waters free from grime and soil. The winding river ends where it began; And when my life has compassed its brief span I must return to that mysterious source. So let me gather daily on my course The perfume from the blossoms as I pass, Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass, And carry down my current as I go Not common stones but precious gems to show; And tears (the holy water from sad eyes) Back to God's sea, from which all rivers rise Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts, Nor poison which the upas tree imparts. When over flowery vales I leap with joy, Let me not devastate them, nor destroy, But rather leave them fairer to the sight; Mine be the lot to comfort and delight. And if down awful chasms I needs must leap Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep On bravely to the end without one fear, Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near. Love sent me forth, to Love I go again, For Love is all, and over all. Amen.

=Sorry=

There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life's way. And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day. I'm sorry for the strong brave men, who shield the weak from harm, But who, in their own troubled hours find no protecting arm.

I am sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure's hand. I'm sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine, But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune's drear decline.

I'm sorry for the souls who build their own fame's funeral pyre, Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire. I'm sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin's defeat, But daily tread down fierce desire 'neath scorched and bleeding feet.

I'm sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion's strain, But I'm sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love's pain. Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave, For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o'er a grave.

I'm sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth, I'm sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth. I'm sorry for the suffering poor in life's great maelstrom hurled, In truth I'm sorry for them all who make this aching world.

But underneath whate'er seems sad and is not understood, I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good. And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text-- The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.

=The Old Wooden Cradle=

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle
The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside.
No more to its motion o'er sleep's fairy ocean,
Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.

No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker,
Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed;
No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging--
The child of this era is put into bed.

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle,
It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm;
When bees left the clover, when play-time was over,
How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.

How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling,
How weird were the voices that whispered around,
What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking,
We floated away into slumber profound.

Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle,
The babe of to-day does not know it by sight.
When day leaves the border, with system and order,
The child goes to bed and we put out the light.

I bow to Progression and ask no concession,
Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past;
So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber,
The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.

=Ambition's Trail=

If all the end of this continuous striving Were simply _to attain_, How poor would seem the planning and contriving The endless urging and the hurried driving Of body, heart and brain!

But ever in the wake of true achieving, There shines this glowing trail-- Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving, New strength and hope, in its own power believing, Because _thou_ didst not fail.

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow, If thou doth miss the goal, Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow-- On, on, ambitious soul.

=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.

=Uncontrolled=

The mighty forces of mysterious space
Are one by one subdued by lordly man.
The awful lightning that for eons ran
Their devastating and untrammeled race,
Now bear his messages from place to place
Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van;
The lawless elements no longer can
Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.

His bold feet scaling heights before untrod,
Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold
He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf.
And yet though ruler, king and demi-god
He walks with his fierce passions uncontrolled
The conquerer of all things--save himself.

=The Tulip Bed At Greeley Square=

You know that oasis, fresh and fair In the city desert, as Greeley square?

That bright triangle of scented bloom That lies surrounded by grime and gloom?

Right in the breast of the seething town Like a gleaming gem or a wanton's gown?

Ah, wonderful things that tulip bed Unto my listening soul has said.

Over the rattle and roar of the street I hear a chorus of voices sweet,

Day and night, when I pass that way, And these are the things the voices say:

"Here, in the heart of the foolish strife, We live a simple and natural life.

"Here, in the midst of the clash and din, We know what it is to be calm within.

"Here, environed by sin and shame, We do what we can with our pure white flame.

"We do what we can with our bloom and grace, To make the city a fairer place.

"It is well to be good though the world is vile, And so through the dust and the smoke we smile,

"We are but atoms in chaos tossed, Yet never a purpose for truth was lost."

Ah, many a sermon is uttered there By the bed of blossoms in Greeley square.

And he who listens and hears aright, Is better equipped for the world's hard fight.

=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_!

=To An Astrologer=

Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore, Nor question that the tenor of my life, Past, present and the future, is revealed There in my horoscope. I do believe That yon dead moon compels the haughty seas To ebb and flow, and that my natal star Stands like a stern-browed sentinel in space And challenges events; nor lets one grief, Or joy, or failure, or success, pass on To mar or bless my earthly lot, until It proves its Karmic right to come to me.

All this I grant, but more than this I _know_! Before the solar systems were conceived, When nothing was but the unnamable, My spirit lived, an atom of the Cause. Through countless ages and in many forms It has existed, ere it entered in This human frame to serve its little day Upon the earth. The deathless Me of me, The spark from that great all-creative fire Is part of that eternal source called God, And mightier than the universe.

Why, he Who knows, and knowing, never once forgets The pedigree divine of his own soul, Can conquer, shape and govern destiny And use vast space as 'twere a board for chess With stars for pawns; can change his horoscope To suit his will; turn failure to success, And from preordained sorrows, harvest joy.

There is no puny planet, sun or moon, Or zodiacal sign which can control The God in us! If we bring _that_ to bear Upon events, we mold them to our wish, 'Tis when the infinite 'neath the finite gropes That men are governed by their horoscopes.

=The Tendril's Faith=

Under the snow in the dark and the cold,
A pale little sprout was humming;
Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold,
Of the beautiful days that were coming.

"How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay,
"What is there, I ask, to prove them?
Just look at the walls between you and the day,
Now, have you the strength to move them?"

But under the ice and under the snow
The pale little sprout kept singing,
"I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,
I know what the days are bringing."

"Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,
Blue, blue skies above me,
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,
And the great glad sun to love me."

A pebble spoke next: "You are quite absurd."
It said, "with your song's insistence;
For _I_ never saw a tree or a bird,
So of course there are none in existence."

"But I know, I know," the tendril cried,
In beautiful sweet unreason;
Till lo! from its prison, glorified,
It burst in the glad spring season.

=The Times=

The times are not degenerate. Man's faith Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed Can take from the immortal soul the need Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

Man may not worship at the ancient shrine Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn. That night is past. He hails a fairer morn, And knows himself a something all divine; No humble worm whose heritage is sin, But, born of God, he feels the Christ within.

Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time, But deep his reverence for that mighty force. That occult working of the great all Source, Which makes the present era so sublime. Religion now means something high and broad, And man stood never half so near to God.

=The Question=

Beside us in our seeking after pleasures,
Through all our restless striving after fame,
Through all our search for worldly gains and treasures,
There walketh one whom no man likes to name.
Silent he follows, veiled of form and feature,
Indifferent if we sorrow or rejoice,
Yet that day comes when every living creature
Must look upon his face and hear his voice.

When that day comes to you, and Death, unmasking,
Shall bar your path, and say, "Behold the end,"
What are the questions that he will be asking
About your past? Have you considered, friend?
I think he will not chide you for your sinning,
Nor for your creeds or dogmas will he care;
He will but ask, "_From your life's first beginning
How many burdens have you helped to bear_?"

=Sorrow's Uses=

The uses of sorrow I comprehend Better and better at each year's end.

Deeper and deeper I seem to see Why and wherefore it has to be.

Only after the dark, wet days Do we fully rejoice in the sun's bright rays.

Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast Than the sated gourmand's finest repast.

The faintest cheer sounds never amiss To the actor who once has heard a hiss.

To one who the sadness of freedom knows, Light seem the fetters love may impose.

And he who has dwelt with his heart alone, Hears all the music in friendship's tone.

So better and better I comprehend, How sorrow ever would be our friend.

=If=

Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let No "If" arise on which to lay the blame. Man makes a mountain of that puny word, But, like a blade of grass before the scythe, It falls and withers when a human will, Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.

Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance Is but the toy of genius. When a soul Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve, All obstacles between it and its goal Must vanish as the dew before the sun.

"If" is the motto of the dilettante And idle dreamer; 'tis the poor excuse Of mediocrity. The truly great Know not the word, or know it but to scorn, Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died, Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.

=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 the 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?

=The Creed To Be=

Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres,
And, like a blessing or a curse,
They thunder down the formless years,
And ring throughout the universe.

We build our futures, by the shape
Of our desires, and not by acts.
There is no pathway of escape;
No priest-made creeds can alter facts.

Salvation is not begged or bought;
Too long this selfish hope sufficed;
Too long man reeked with lawless thought,
And leaned upon a tortured Christ.

Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creeds
Are dropping from Religion's tree;
The world begins to know its needs,
And souls are crying to be free.

Free from the load of fear and grief,
Man fashioned in an ignorant age;
Free from the ache of unbelief
He fled to in rebellious rage.

No church can bind him to the things
That fed the first crude souls, evolved;
For, mounting up on daring wings,
He questions mysteries all unsolved.

Above the chant of priests, above
The blatant voice of braying doubt,
He hears the still, small voice of Love,
Which sends its simple message out.

And clearer, sweeter, day by day,
Its mandate echoes from the skies,
"Go roll the stone of self away,
And let the Christ within thee rise."

=Music In The Flat=

When Tom and I were married, we took a little flat; I had a taste for singing and playing and all that. And Tom, who loved to hear me, said he hoped I would not stop All practice, like so many wives who let their music drop. So I resolved to set apart an hour or two each day To keeping vocal chords and hands in trim to sing and play.

The second morning I had been for half an hour or more At work on Haydn's masses, when a tap came at my door. A nurse who wore a dainty cap and apron, and a smile, Ran down to ask if I would cease my music for awhile. The lady in the flat above was very ill, she said, And the sound of my piano was distracting to her head.

A fortnight's exercises lost, ere I began them, when, The following morning at my door, there came that tap again; A woman with an anguished face implored me to forego My music for some days to come--a man was dead below. I shut down my piano till the corpse had left the house, And spoke to Tom in whispers and was quiet as a mouse.

A week of labor limbered up my stiffened hand and voice, I stole an extra hour from sleep, to practice and rejoice; When, ting-a-ling, the door-bell rang a discord in my trill-- The baby in the flat across was very, very ill. For ten long days that infant's life was hanging by a thread, And all that time my instrument was silent as the dead.

So pain and death and sickness came in one perpetual row, When babies were not born above, then tenants died below. The funeral over underneath, some one fell ill on top, And begged me, for the love of God, to let my music drop. When trouble went not up or down, it stalked across the hall, And so in spite of my resolve, I do not play at all.

=Inspiration=

Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,
Is inspiration, eager to pursue,
But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy,
Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.

Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire,
In passing by, but when she turns her face,
Thou must persist and seek her with desire,
If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace.

And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air,
And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth,
Still must thou strive to follow even there,
That she may know thy valor and thy worth.

Then shall she come unveiling all her charms,
Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears;
Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms,
The while she murmurs music in thine ears.

But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek,
She shall flee from thee over hill and glade,
So must thou seek and ever seek and seek
For each new conquest of this phantom maid.

=The Wish=

Should some great angel say to me to-morrow,
"Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start,
But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow,
Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart."

This were my wish! from my life's dim beginning
_Let be what has been!_ wisdom planned the whole;
My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning,
All, all were needed lessons for my soul.

=Three Friends=

Of all the blessings which my life has known, I value most, and most praise God for three: Want, Loneliness and Pain, those comrades true,

Who, masqueraded in the garb of foes For many a year, and filled my heart with dread. Yet fickle joys, like false, pretentious friends, Have proved less worthy than this trio. First,

Want taught me labor, led me up the steep And toilsome paths to hills of pure delight, Trod only by the feet that know fatigue, And yet press on until the heights appear.

Then loneliness and hunger of the heart Sent me upreaching to the realms of space, Till all the silences grew eloquent, And all their loving forces hailed me friend.

Last, pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staff Of close communion with the over-soul, That I might lean upon it till the end, And find myself made strong for any strife.

And then these three who had pursued my steps Like stern, relentless foes, year after year, Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me, And lo! they were divinely beautiful, For through them shone the lustrous eyes of Love.

=You Never Can Tell=

You never can tell when you send a word,
Like an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
Just where it may chance to go.
It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend.
Tipped with its poison or balm,
To a stranger's heart in life's great mart,
It may carry its pain or its calm.

You never can tell when you do an act
Just what the result will be;
But with every deed you are sowing a seed,
Though the harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
In God's productive soil
You may not know, but the tree shall grow,
With shelter for those who toil.

You never can tell what your thoughts will do,
In bringing you hate or love;
For thoughts are things, and their airy wings
Are swifter than carrier doves.
They follow the law of the universe--
Each thing must create its kind,
And they speed o'er the track to bring you back
_Whatever went out from your mind_.

=Here And Now=

Here, in the heart of the world,
Here, in the noise and the din,
Here, where our spirits were hurled
To battle with sorrow and sin,
This is the place and the spot
For knowledge of infinite things;
This is the kingdom where Thought
Can conquer the prowess of kings.

Wait for no heavenly life,
Seek for no temple alone;
Here, in the midst of the strife,
Know what the sages have known.
See what the Perfect Ones saw--
God in the depth of each soul,
God as the light and the law,
God as beginning and goal.

Earth is one chamber of Heaven,
Death is no grander than birth.
Joy in the life that was given,
Strive for perfection on earth.
Here, in the turmoil and roar,
Show what it is to be calm;
Show how the spirit can soar
And bring back its healing and balm.

Stand not aloof nor apart,
Plunge in the thick of the fight.
There in the street and the mart,
That is the place to do right.
Not in some cloister or cave,
Not in some kingdom above,
Here, on this side of the grave,
Here, should we labor and love.

=Unconquered=

However skilled and strong art thou, my foe, However fierce is thy relentless hate Though firm thy hand, and strong thy aim, and straight Thy poisoned arrow leaves the bended bow, To pierce the target of my heart, ah! know I am the master yet of my own fate. Thou canst not rob me of my best estate, Though fortune, fame and friends, yea love shall go.

Not to the dust shall my true self be hurled; Nor shall I meet thy worst assaults dismayed. When all things in the balance are well weighed, There is but one great danger in the world-- _Thou canst not force my soul to wish thee ill_, That is the only evil that can kill.

=All That Love Asks=

"All that I ask," says Love, "is just to stand
And gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes;
For in their depths lies largest Paradise.
Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy hand
Be granted me, then joy I thought complete
Were still more sweet."

"All that I ask," says Love, "all that I ask,
Is just thy hand clasp. Could I brush thy cheek
As zephyrs brush a rose leaf, words are weak
To tell the bliss in which my soul would bask.
There is no language but would desecrate
A joy so great."

"All that I ask, is just one tender touch
Of that soft cheek. Thy pulsing palm in mine,
Thy dark eyes lifted in a trust divine
And those curled lips that tempt me overmuch
Turned where I may not seize the supreme bliss
Of one mad kiss.

"All that I ask," says Love, "of life, of death,
Or of high heaven itself, is just to stand,
Glance melting into glance, hand twined in hand,
The while I drink the nectar of thy breath,
In one sweet kiss, but one, of all thy store,
I ask no more."

"All that I ask"--nay, self-deceiving Love,
Reverse thy phrase, so thus the words may fall,
In place of "all I ask," say, "I ask all,"
All that pertains to earth or soars above,
All that thou wert, art, will be, body, soul,
Love asks the whole.

=Does It Pay=

If one poor burdened toiler o'er life's road,
Who meets us by the way,
Goes on less conscious of his galling load,
Then life indeed, does pay.

If we can show one troubled heart the gain,
That lies alway in loss,
Why then, we too, are paid for all the pain
Of bearing life's hard cross.

If some despondent soul to hope is stirred,
Some sad lip made to smile,
By any act of ours, or any word,
Then, life has been worth while.

=Sestina=

I wandered o'er the vast green plains of youth, And searched for Pleasure. On a distant height Fame's silhouette stood sharp against the skies. Beyond vast crowds that thronged a broad high-way I caught the glimmer of a golden goal, While from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.

Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love, With all the haughty insolence of youth, As past her bower I strode to seek my goal. "Now will I climb to glory's dizzy height," I said, "for there above the common way Doth pleasure dwell companioned by the skies."

But when I reached that summit near the skies, So far from man I seemed, so far from Love-- "Not here," I cried, "doth Pleasure find her way," Seen from the distant borderland of youth. Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height, But frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.

Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal, Dear to all sense--sunk souls beneath the skies. Gold tempts the artist from the lofty height, Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love, Gold buys the fresh ingenuous heart of youth, "And gold," I said, "will show me Pleasure's way."

But ah! the soil and discord of that way, Where savage hordes rushed headlong to the goal, Dead to the best impulses of their youth, Blind to the azure beauty of the skies; Dulled to the voice of conscience and of love, They wandered far from Truth's eternal height.

Then Truth spoke to me from that noble height, Saying: "Thou didst pass Pleasure on the way, She with the yearning eyes so full of Love, Whom thou disdained to seek for glory's goal." Two blending paths beneath God's arching skies Lead straight to Pleasure. Ah, blind heart of youth, Not up fame's height, not toward the base god's goal, Doth Pleasure make her way, but 'neath calm skies Where Duty walks with Love in endless youth.

=The Optimist=

The fields were bleak and sodden. Not a wing Or note enlivened the depressing wood, A soiled and sullen, stubborn snowdrift stood Beside the roadway. Winds came muttering Of storms to be, and brought the chilly sting Of icebergs in their breath. Stalled cattle mooed Forth plaintive pleadings for the earth's green food. No gleam, no hint of hope in anything.

The sky was blank and ashen, like the face Of some poor wretch who drains life's cup too fast. Yet, swaying to and fro, as if to fling About chilled Nature its lithe arms of grace, Smiling with promise in the wintry blast, The optimistic Willow spoke of spring.

=The Pessimist=

The pessimistic locust, last to leaf, Though all the world is glad, still talks of grief.

=The Hammock's Complaint=

Who thinks how desolate and strange To me must seem the autumn's change, When housed in attic or in chest, A lonely and unwilling guest, I lie through nights of bleak December, And think in silence, and remember.

I think of hempen fields, where I Once played with insects floating by, And joyed alike in sun and rain, Unconscious of approaching pain. I dwell upon my later lot, Where, swung in some secluded spot Between two tried and trusted trees, All summer long I wooed the breeze. With song of bee and call of bird And lover's secrets overheard, And sight and scent of blooming flowers, To fill the happy sunlight's hours. When verdant fields grow bare and brown, When forest leaves come raining down, When frost has mated with the weather And all the birds go south together, When drying boats turn up their keels, Who wonders how the hammock feels?

=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.

=Preaching vs. Practice=

It is easy to sit in the sunshine
And talk to the man in the shade;
It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat,
And point out the places to wade.

But once we pass into the shadows,
We murmur and fret and frown,
And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank,
Or throw up our hands and go down.

It is easy to sit in your carriage,
And counsel the man on foot,
But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk,
As you feel the peg in your boot.

It is easy to tell the toiler
How best he can carry his pack,
But no one can rate a burden's weight
Until it has been on his back.

The up-curled mouth of pleasure,
Can prate of sorrow's worth,
But give it a sip, and a wryer lip,
Was never made on earth.

=An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride=

As when the old moon lighted by the tender
And radiant crescent of the new is seen,
And for a moment's space suggests the splendor
Of what in its full prime it once has been,
So on my waning years you cast the glory
Of youth and pleasure, for a little hour;
And life again seems like an unread story,
And joy and hope both stir me with their power.

Can blooming June be fond of bleak December?
I dare not wait to hear my heart reply.
I will forget the question--and remember
Alone the priceless feast spread for mine eye,
That radiant hair that flows across the pillows,
Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow;
Those heaving breasts, like undulating billows,
Whose dangers or delights but Love can know.

That crimson mouth from which sly Cupid borrowed
The pattern for his bow, nor asked consent;
That smooth, unruffled brow which has not sorrowed--
All these are mine; should I not be content?
Yet are these treasures mine, or only lent me?
And who shall claim them when I pass away?
Oh, jealous Fate, to torture and torment me
With thoughts like these in my too fleeting day!

For while I gained the prize which all were seeking,
And won you with the ardor of my quest,
The bitter truth I know without your speaking--
_You only let me love you at the best_.
E'en while I lean and count my riches over,
And view with gloating eyes your priceless charms,
I know somewhere there dwells the unnamed lover
Who yet shall clasp you, willing, in his arms.

And while my hands stray through your clustering tresses,
And while my lips are pressed upon your own,
This unseen lover waits for such caresses
As my poor hungering clay has never known,
And when some day, between you and your duty
A green grave lies, his love shall make you glad,
And you shall crown him with your splendid beauty--
Ah, God! ah, God! 'tis this way men go mad!

=I Am=

I know not whence I came,
I know not whither I go;
But the fact stands clear that I am here
In this world of pleasure and woe.
And out of the mist and murk,
Another truth shines plain.
It is in my power each day and hour
To add to its joy or its pain.

I know that the earth exists,
It is none of my business why.
I cannot find out what it's all about,
I would but waste time to try.
My life is a brief, brief thing,
I am here for a little space.
And while I stay I would like, if I may,
To brighten and better the place.

The trouble, I think, with us all
Is the lack of a high conceit.
If each man thought he was sent to this spot
To make it a bit more sweet,
How soon we could gladden the world.
How easily right all wrong.
If nobody shirked, and each one worked
To help his fellows along.

Cease wondering why you came--
Stop looking for faults and flaws.
Rise up to-day in your pride and say,
"I am part of the First Great Cause!
However full the world
There is room for an earnest man.
It had need of _me_ or I would not be,
I am here to strengthen the plan."

=Two Nights=

(Suggested by the lives of Napoleon and Josephine.)

I.

One night was full of rapture and delight--
Of reunited arms and swooning kisses,
And all the unnamed and unnumbered blisses
Which fond souls find in love of love at night.

Heart beat with heart, and each clung into each
With twining arms that did but loose their hold
To cling still closer; and fond glances told
These truths for which there is no uttered speech.

There was sweet laughter and endearing words,
Made broken by the kiss that could not wait,
And cooing sounds as of dear little birds
That in spring-time love and woo and mate.

And languid sighs that breathed of love's content And all too soon this night of rapture went.