POEMS OF EXPERIENCE
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
1917
[All rights reserved]
Reprinted 1911, 1912, 1913, 1915, 1916, 1917
Any edition of my poems published in England by any firm except Messrs. Gay and Hancock is pirated and not authentic.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
April 12, 1910.
CONTENTS
| PAGE | |
| The Empty Bowl | [1] |
| Keep Going | [2] |
| A Prayer | [4] |
| The London ‘Bobby’ | [5] |
| Read at the Benefit of Clara Morris | [7] |
| Two Ghosts | [10] |
| Woman | [13] |
| Battle Hymn of the Women | [17] |
| Memories | [19] |
| See? | [21] |
| The Purpose | [23] |
| The White Man | [24] |
| A Moorish Maid | [26] |
| Lincoln | [28] |
| I know not | [29] |
| Interlude | [30] |
| Resurrection | [31] |
| The Voices of the City | [32] |
| If Christ came Questioning | [36] |
| England, Awake! | [38] |
| Be not attached | [39] |
| An Episode | [41] |
| The Voice of the Voiceless | [43] |
| Time’s Defeat | [47] |
| The Hymn of the Republic | [49] |
| The Radiant Christ | [53] |
| At Bay | [56] |
| The Birth of Jealousy | [58] |
| Summer’s Farewell | [61] |
| The Goal | [63] |
| Christ Crucified | [65] |
| The Trip to Mars | [69] |
| Fiction and Fact | [71] |
| Progress | [72] |
| How the White Rose Came | [73] |
| I look to Science | [75] |
| Appreciation | [77] |
| The Awakening | [78] |
| Most blest is he | [80] |
| Nirvana | [82] |
| Life | [84] |
| Two men | [86] |
| Only be still | [88] |
| Pardoned Out | [89] |
| The Tides | [91] |
| Progression | [94] |
| Acquaintance | [95] |
| Attainment | [96] |
| The tower-room | [97] |
| Father | [99] |
| The new Hawaiian girl | [101] |
THE EMPTY BOWL
I held the golden vessel of my soul
And prayed that God would fill it from on high.
Day after day the importuning cry
Grew stronger—grew, a heaven-accusing dole
Because no sacred waters laved my bowl.
‘So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou deny
The little needed for a soul’s supply?
I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.’
Then from the vast invisible Somewhere,
A voice, as one love-authorised by Him,
Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled.
‘Who wants the waters must the bowl prepare;
Pour out the self, that chokes it to the brim,
But emptied vessels, from the source are filled.’
KEEP GOING
Is the goal distant, and troubled the road,
And the way long?
And heavy your load?
Then gird up your courage, and say ‘I am strong,’
And keep going.
Is the work weary, and endless the grind
And petty the pay?
Then brace up your mind
And say ‘Something better is coming my way,’
And keep doing.
Is the drink bitter life pours in your cup—
Is the taste gall?
Then smile and look up
And say ‘God is with me whatever befall,’
And keep trusting.
Is the heart heavy with hope long deferred,
And with prayers that seem vain?
Keep saying the word—
And that which you strive for you yet shall attain.
Keep praying.
A PRAYER
Just as I shape the purport of my thought,
Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot.
Let each ill thought that in my heart may be,
Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.
Until I weed the garden of my mind
From all that is unworthy and unkind,
Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord?
Then as I think, so must be my reward.
Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength,
That which we plant, we gather in at length.
Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me,
And as my thoughts, so let my future be.
THE LONDON ‘BOBBY’
A TRIBUTE TO THE
POLICEMEN OF ENGLAND’S CAPITAL
Here in my cosy corner,
Before a blazing log,
I’m thinking of cold London
Wrapped in its killing fog;
And, like a shining beacon
Above the picture grim,
I see the London ‘Bobby,’
And sing my song for him.
I see his stalwart figure,
I see his kindly face,
I hear his helpful answer
At any hour or place.
For, though you seek some by-way
Long miles from his own beat,
He tells you all about it,
And how to find the street.
He looks like some bold Viking,
This king of earth’s police—
Yet in his voice lies feeling,
And in his eye lies peace;
He knows and does his duty—
(What higher praise is there?)
And London’s lords and paupers
Alike receive his care.
He has a regal bearing,
Yet one that breathes repose;
It is the look and manner
Of one who thinks and knows.
Oh, men who govern nations,
In old worlds or in new,
Turn to the London ‘Bobby’
And learn a thing or two.
READ AT THE BENEFIT
OF CLARA MORRIS
(AMERICA’S GREAT EMOTIONAL ACTRESS)
The Radiant Rulers of Mystic Regions
Where souls of artists are fitted for birth
Gathered together their lovely legions
And fashioned a woman to shine on earth.
They bathed her in splendour,
They made her tender,
They gave her a nature both sweet and wild;
They gave her emotions like storm-stirred oceans,
And they gave her the heart of a little child.
These Radiant Rulers (who are not human
Nor yet divine like the gods above)
Poured all their gifts in the soul of woman,
That fragile vessel meant only for love.
Still more they taught her,
Still more they brought her,
Till they gave her the world for a harp one day:
And they bade her string it,
They bade her ring it,
While the stars all wondered to hear her play.
She touched the strings in a master fashion,
She uttered the cry of a world’s despair:
Its long hid secret, its pent-up passion,
She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.
For oh! the heart of her,
That was the art of her.
Great with the feeling that makes men kin.
Art unapproachable,
Art all uncoachable,
Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.
The earth turns ever an ear unheeding
To the sorrows of art, as it cries ‘encore.’
And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding,
And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.
She knew the trend of it,
She knew the end of it—
Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.
Bound to the altar
Of art, could she falter?
Then came a silence—the music was still.
And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it;
In waves unbroken it circles the earth:
And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit
A gleam from the centre that gave her birth.
Still is the fame of her
Felt in the name of her—
But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain;
No hand has taken it,
No hand can waken it—
For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.
TWO GHOSTS
Two dead men boarded a spectral ship
In the astral Port of Space;
On that ghost-filled barque, they met in the dark,
And halted, face to face.
‘Now whither away’—called one of the ghosts,
‘This ship sets sail for Earth.
On the astral plane you must remain,
Where the newly dead have birth.’
‘But I could not stay and I would not stay,’
The other ghost replied;
‘I must hurry back to the old Earth track
And stand at my loved one’s side.
‘She weeps for me in her lonely room,
In the land from whence I came;
Oh! stow me away in this ship, I pray,
For I hear her call my name.’
‘You must not go, and you shall not go,’
The first ghost cried in wrath.
‘Your work is planned, in the astral land,
And a guide will show you the path.’
‘But the one I love’—‘I loved her too,’
The first ghost stood and cried;
‘And year on year I waited here,
Yea, waited till you died.
‘For I would not come between you two,
Nor shadow her joy with fear,
But mine is the right, I claim this night
To visit the earthly sphere.
‘For you are dead, and I am dead,
And you had her long—so long.
And to look on the grace of her worshipped face,
Ah! now it can do no wrong.
‘I am fettered to Earth by love of her,
And hers is the spell divine,
That can help me rise, to the realm that lies
Just over the astral line.
‘I have kept to the laws of God and man,
I have suffered and made no moan;
Now my little share of joy, I swear
I will have—and have it alone.’
A skeleton crew the anchor drew,
And the ship from the port swung free;
With a muffled clang the ghost bell rang,
And the boat sailed out to sea.
And one ghost stood on the deck and laughed,
As only a glad ghost can;
While a swooning soul was dragged to his goal,
To work out the astral span.
And a woman wept, and prayed ere she slept,
For a dream to ease her pain;
But she dreamed instead of a man long dead,
Who had loved her all in vain.
WOMAN
Strange are the ways that her feet have trod
Since first she was set in the path of duty,
Finished and fair by the hand of God,
To carry her message of love and beauty.
Delicate creature of light and shade,
She gleamed like an opal, on wide worlds under:
And earth looked up to her half afraid,
While heaven looked down at her, full of wonder.
Flame of the comet and mist of the moon,
And ray of the sun all mingled in her.
And the heart of her asked but a single boon—
That love should seek her, and find her, and win her.
She grasped the scope of the First Intent
That made her kingdom for her, no other,
And joyfully into her place she went—
The primal mate, and the primal mother.
Large was that kingdom and vast her sphere,
And lightly she lifted and bore each burden.
Lightly she laughed in the eyes of fear,
For love was her recompense, love her guerdon.
And never in camp, or in cave, or in home,
Rose voice of mother or mate complaining.
And never the foot of her sought to roam,
Till love in the heart of the man seemed waning.
In the broad rich furrows by woman turned
Man, unwitting, set plough and harrow.
For worlds to conquer she had not yearned,
Till he spoke of her feminine sphere as ‘narrow.’
The lullaby changed to a martial strain—
When he took her travail, and song for granted—
And forth she forged in his own domain—
Till the strange ‘new woman,’ the old supplanted.
‘Strange’ with the glow of a wakened soul,
And ‘new’ with the purpose of large endeavour,
She turned her face to the higher goal—
To the higher goal it is turned for ever.
Trade and science and craft and art,
Have opened their doors to the call of woman;
And greater she grows in her greater part,
More tenderly wise, and more sweetly human.
Brave foremothers of freedom’s birth
Smile through space on your splendid daughters.
At one with liberty lighting the earth,
Their torches flame o’er the darkest waters.
They lend a lustre to sea and land:
They sweeten the world with their wholesome graces:
As out in the harbour of life they stand
To cheer and welcome the coming races.
Brave forefathers and heroes who fought
Under the flag of the Revolution,
War was the price of the freedom you bought,
But peace is the watchword of Evolution.
The progress of woman means progress of peace,
She wars on war, and its hosts alarming;
And her great love battle will never cease,
Till the glory is seen of a world disarming.
The woman wonder with heart of flame,
The coming man of the race will find her.
For petty purpose and narrow aim,
And fault and flaw she will leave behind her.
He grown tender, and she grown wise,
They shall enter the Eden by both created;
The broadened kingdom of Paradise,
And love, and mate, as the first pair mated.
BATTLE HYMN OF THE WOMEN
They are waking, they are waking,
In the east, and in the west;
They are throwing wide their windows to the sun;
And they see the dawn is breaking,
And they quiver with unrest,
For they know their work is waiting to be done.
They are waking in the city,
They are waking on the farm;
They are waking in the boudoir, and the mill;
And their hearts are full of pity
As they sound the loud alarm,
For the sleepers, who in darkness, slumber, still.
In the guarded harem prison,
Where they smother under veils,
And all echoes of the world are walled away;
Though the sun has not yet risen,
Yet the ancient darkness pales,
And the sleepers, in their slumber, dream of day.
And their dream shall grow in splendour
Till each sleeper wakes, and stirs;
Till she breaks from old traditions, and is free;
And the world shall rise, and render
Unto woman what is hers,
As it welcomes in the race that is to be.
Unto woman, God the Maker
Gave the secret of His plan;
It is written out in cipher, on her soul;
From the darkness, you must take her,
To the light of day, O man!
Would you know the mighty meaning of the scroll.
MEMORIES [19]
I am thinking of the Springtime
On the farm out in the West,
When my world held nothing for me that I wanted,
(Save a courage all undaunted),
And my foolish little rhymes,
Were but heart beats, rung in chimes,
That I sounded, just to ease my life’s unrest.
Yes, I sang them, and I rang them,
Just to ease my youth’s unrest.
When I heard the name of London,
In that early day, afar,
In that Springtime of my Country over yonder,
Then I used to sit and wonder
If the day would come to me,
When my ship should cross the sea,
To the land that seemed as distant as a star.
In my dreaming, ever gleaming
Like a distant unknown star.
Now in London in the Springtime,
I am sitting here, your guest.
Nay—I think it is a vision, or a fancy—
Part of dreamland Necromancy;
And I question: is it true
That the great warm hearts of you,
Heard the winging of that singing in the West,
Heard the chiming of my rhyming
From the farmhouse in the West?
Let me linger in the fancy,
For the soul of me is stirred
As I dream that I am sitting here among you;
And the songs that I have sung you
Shall grow stronger through the art
Of heart speaking unto heart,
Through the gladness of the singer who is heard
Lo! my songs have crossed the ocean
But the voice of my emotion finds no word.
SEE?
If one proves weak who you fancied strong,
Or false who you fancied true,
Just ease the smart of your wounded heart
By the thought that it is not you!
If many forget a promise made,
And your faith falls into the dust,
Then look meanwhile in your mirror and smile,
And say, ‘I am one to trust!’
If you search in vain for an ageing face
Unharrowed by fretful fears,
Then make right now (and keep) a vow
To grow in grace with the years.
If you lose your faith in the word of man
As you go from the port of youth,
Just say as you sail, ‘I will not fail
To keep to the course of truth!’
For this is the way, and the only way—
At least so it seems to me.
It is up to you, to be, and do,
What you look for in others. See?
THE PURPOSE
Over and over the task was set,
Over and over I slighted the work,
But ever and alway I knew that yet
I must face and finish the toil I shirk.
Over and over the whip of pain
Has spurred and punished with blow on blow;
As ever and alway I tried in vain
To shun the labour I hated so.
Over and over I came this way
For just one purpose: O stubborn soul!
Turn with a will to your work to-day,
And learn the lesson of Self-Control.
THE WHITE MAN
Wherever the white man’s feet have trod
(Oh far does the white man stray)
A bold road rifles the virginal sod,
And the forest wakes out of its dream of God,
To yield him the right of way.
For this is the law: By the power of thought,
For worse, or for better, are miracles wrought.
Wherever the white man’s pathway leads,
(Far, far has that pathway gone)
The Earth is littered with broken creeds—
And alway the dark man’s tent recedes,
And the white man pushes on.
For this is the law: Be it good or ill,
All things must yield to the stronger will.
Wherever the white man’s light is shed,
(Oh far has that light been thrown)
Though Nature has suffered and beauty bled,
Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead,
And the might of the race has grown.
For this is the law: Be it cruel or kind,
The Universe sways to the power of mind.
A MOORISH MAID
Above her veil a shrouded Moorish maid
Showed melting eyes, as limpid as a lake;
A brow untouched by care; a band of jetty hair,
And nothing more. The all-concealing haik
Fell to her high arched instep. At her side
An old duenna walked; her withered face
Half covered only, since no lingering grace
Bespoke the beauty once her master’s pride.
Above her veil, the Moorish maid beheld
The modern world, in Paris-decked Algiers;
Saw happy lad and lass, in love’s contentment pass,
Or in sweet wholesome friendship, free from fears.
She saw fair matrons, walking arm-in-arm
With life-long lovers, time-endeared, and then
She saw the ardent look in eyes of men,
And thrilled and trembled with a vague alarm.
Above her veil she saw the stuccoed court
That led to dim secluded rooms within.
She followed, dutiful, the dame unbeautiful,
Who told her that the Christian world means sin.
Some day, full soon, she would go forth a bride—
Of one whose face she never had beheld.
Something within her, wakened, and rebelled;
She flung aside her veil, and cried, and cried.
LINCOLN
When God created this good world
A few stupendous peaks were hurled
From His strong hand, and they remain
The wonder of the level plain.
But these colossal heights are rare,
While shifting sands are everywhere.
So with the race. The centuries pass
And nations fall like leaves of grass.
They die, forgotten and unsung;
While straight from God some souls are flung,
To live immortal and sublime.
So lives great Lincoln for all time.
I KNOW NOT
Death! I know not what room you are abiding in,
But I will go my way,
Rejoicing day by day,
Nor will I flee or stay
For fear I tread the path you may be hiding in.
Death! I know not, if my small barque be nearing you;
But if you are at sea,
Still there my sails float free;
‘What is to be will be.’
Nor will I mar the happy voyage by fearing you.
Death! I know not, what hour or spot you wait for me;
My days untroubled flow,
Just trusting on, I go,
For oh, I know, I know,
Death is but Life that holds some glad new fate for me.
INTERLUDE
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;
The headstones thicken along the way,
And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger,
For those who walk with us day by day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;
The courage is lesser to do and dare;
And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower,
And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things in the world seem truer;
And the better things of earth seem best,
And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer,
And love is all as our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone;
For no man knows on the morrow whether
We two pass on—or but one alone.
RESURRECTION
Pausing a moment ere the day was done,
While yet the earth was scintillant with light,
I backward glanced. From valley, plain, and height,
At intervals, where my life-path had run,
Rose cross on cross; and nailed upon each one
Was my dead self. And yet that gruesome sight
Lent sudden splendour to the falling night,
Showing the conquests that my soul had won.
Up to the rising stars I looked and cried,
‘There is no death! for year on year, re-born
I wake to larger life: to joy more great,
So many times have I been crucified,
So often seen the resurrection morn,
I go triumphant, though new Calvaries wait.
THE VOICES OF THE CITY
The voices of the city—merged and swelled
Into a mighty dissonance of sound,
And from the medley rose these broken strains
In changing time and ever-changing keys.