Poems of Sentiment

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

TURQUOISE

A baby went to heaven while it slept,
And, waking, missed its mother’s arms, and wept.
Those angel tear-drops, falling earthward through
God’s azure skies, into the turquoise grew.

REFORM

The time has come when men with hearts and brains
Must rise and take the misdirected reins
Of government; too long left in the hands
Of aliens and of lackeys. He who stands
And sees the mighty vehicle of State
Hauled through the mire to some ignoble fate
And makes not such bold protest as he can,
Is no American,

A MINOR CHORD

I heard a strain of music in the street—
A wandering waif of sound. And then straightway
A nameless desolation filled the day.
The great green earth that had been fair and sweet,
Seemed but a tomb; the life I thought replete
With joy, grew lonely for a vanished May.
Forgotten sorrows resurrected lay
Like bleaching skeletons about my feet.

Above me stretched the silent, suffering sky,
Dumb with vast anguish for departed suns
That brutal Time to nothingness has hurled.
The daylight was as sad as smiles that lie
Upon the wistful, unkissed mouths of nuns,
And I stood prisoned in an awful world.

DEATH’S PROTEST

Why dost thou shrink from my approach, O Man?
Why dost thou ever flee in fear, and cling
To my false rival, Life? I do but bring
Thee rest and calm. Then wherefore dost thou ban
And curse me? Since the forming of God’s plan
I have not hurt or harmed a mortal thing,
I have bestowed sweet balm for every sting,
And peace eternal for earth’s stormy span.

The wild mad prayers for comfort sent in vain
To knock at the indifferent heart of Life,
I, Death, have answered. Knowest thou not ’tis he,
My cruel rival, who sends all thy pain
And wears the soul out in unending strife?
Why dost thou hold to him, then, spurning me?

SEPTEMBER

My life’s long radiant Summer halts at last,
And lo! beside my path way I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast

My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn’s place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I’ll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.

WAIL OF AN OLD-TIMER

Each new invention doubles our worries an’ our troubles,
These scientific fellows are spoilin’ of our land;
With motor, wire, an’ cable, now’-days we’re scarcely able
To walk or ride in peace o’ mind, an’ ’tisn’t safe to stand.

It fairly makes me crazy to see how tarnal lazy
The risin’ generation grows—an’ science is to blame.
With telephones for talkin’, an’ messengers for walkin’,
Our young men sit an’ loaf an’ smoke, without a blush o’ shame.

An’ then they wer’n’t contented until some one invented
A sort o’ jerky tape-line clock, to help on wasteful ways.
An’ that infernal ticker spends money fur ’em quicker
Than any neighbourhood o’ men in good old bygone days.

The risin’ generation is bent so on creation,
Folks haven’t time to talk or sing or cry or even laugh.
But if you take the notion to want some such emotion,
They’ve got it all on tap fur you, right in the phonograph.

But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature
Of artificial weather, I think we’re nearly through.
For when we once go strainin’ to keep it dry or rainin’
To suit the general public, ’twill bust the world in two,

WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE

Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.

In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust;

Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;

Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished with nothing to show.

“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan;
“I live in pleasures that I have known.”

The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty Was,

And gazed far off into misty space
With a wrapt expression upon her face.

“Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,
Such glory, such honour,” said Yet-to-be.

“No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been,
Of such successes as I shall win.

“The past, the present—why, what are they?
I live for the joy of a future day.”

Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress,
Spoke up with a laugh, “I must confess

“I find to-day so pleasant,” she said,
“I never look back, and seldom ahead.

“Whatever has been, is a finished sum;
Whatever will be—why, let it come.

“To-day is mine. And so, you see,
I have the past and the yet-to-be;

“For to-day is the future of yesterday,
And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,

“And I think the secret of pleasure is this.
And this alone,” said practical Is.

MISTAKES

God sent us here to make mistakes,
To strive, to fail, to re-begin,
To taste the tempting fruit of sin,
And find what bitter food it makes,

To miss the path, to go astray,
To wander blindly in the night;
But, searching, praying for the light,
Until at last we find the way.

And looking back along the past,
We know we needed all the strain
Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
To make us value peace, at last.

Who fails, finds later triumph sweet;
Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
And knows the place to cry “Beware”
To other unaccustomed feet.

Through strife the slumbering soul awakes,
We learn on error’s troubled route
The truths we could not prize without
The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

DUAL

You say that your nature is double; that life
Seems more and more intricate, complex, and dual,
Because in your bosom there wages the strife
’Twixt an angel of light and a beast that is cruel—
An angel who whispers your spirit has wings,
And a beast who would chain you to temporal things.

I listen with interest to all you have told,
And now let me give you my view of your trouble:
You are to be envied, not pitied; I hold
That every strong nature is always made double.
The beast has his purpose; he need not be slain:
He should serve the good angel in harness and chain.

The body that never knows carnal desires,
The heart that to passion is always a stranger,
Is merely a furnace with unlighted fires;
It sends forth no warmth while it threatens no danger.
But who wants to shiver in cold safety there?
Touch flame to the fuel! then watch it with care.

Those wild, fierce emotions that trouble your soul
Are sparks from the great source of passion and power;
Throne reason above them, and give it control,
And turn into blessing this dangerous dower.
By lightnings unguided destruction is hurled,
But chained and directed they gladden the world.

THE ALL-CREATIVE SPARK

Pain can go guised as joy, dross pass for gold,
Vulgarity can masquerade as wit,
Or spite wear friendship’s garments; but I hold
That passionate feeling has no counterfeit.
Chief jewel from Jove’s crown ’twas sent men, lent
For inspiration and for sacrament.

Jove never could have made the Universe
Had he not glowed with passion’s sacred fire;
Though man oft turns the blessing to a curse,
And burns himself on his own funeral pyre,
Though scarred the soul be where its light burns bright,
Yet where it is not, neither is there might.

Yea, it was set in Jove’s resplendent crown
When he created worlds; that done, why, hence,
He cast the priceless, awful jewel down
To be man’s punishment and recompense.
And that is how he sees and hears our tears
Unmoved and calm from the eternal spheres.

But sometimes, since he parted with all passion,
In trifling mood, to pass the time away,
He has created men in that same fashion,
And many women (jesting as gods may),
Who have no souls to be inspired or fired,
Mere sport of idle gods who have grown tired.

And these poor puppets, gazing in the dark
At their own shadows, think the world no higher;
And when they see the all-creative spark
In other souls, they straightway cry out, “Fire!”
And shriek, and rave, till their dissent is spent,
While listening gods laugh loud in merriment.

BE NOT CONTENT

Be not content—contentment means inaction;
The growing soul aches on its upward quest;
Satiety is twin to satisfaction;
All great achievements spring from life’s unrest.

The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding,
Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower
Were not an inborn restlessness abiding
In seed and germ, to stir them with its power.

Were man contented with his lot forever,
He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled,
And the vast wonder of our shores had never
Dawned on the gaze of an admiring world.

Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented.
There is a healthful restlessness of soul
By which a mighty purpose is augmented
In urging men to reach a higher goal.

So when the restless impulse rises, driving
Your calm content before it, do not grieve;
It is the upward reaching of the spirit
Of the God in you to achieve—achieve.

ACTION

For ever stars are winging
Their swift and endless race;
For ever suns are swinging
Their mighty globes through space.
Since by his law required
To join God’s spheres inspired,
The earth has never tired,
But whirled and whirled and whirled.
For ever streams are flowing,
For ever seeds are growing,
Alway is Nature showing
That Action rules the world.

And since by God requested
To be, the glorious light
Has never paused or rested,
But travelled day and night.
Yet pigmy man, unseeing
The purpose of his being,
Demands escape and freeing
From universal force.
But law is law for ever,
And like a mighty lever
It thrusts him tow’rd endeavour,
And speeds him on his course.

TWO ROSES

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot’s royal splendour,
And both in my lady’s boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning,
“I wonder why you are called a rose?
Your leaves will fade in a single morning;
No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

“Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway,
You have no depths of fragrant bloom;
And what could you learn in a rustic byway
To fit you to lie in my lady’s room?

“If called to adorn her warm, white bosom,
What have you to offer for such a place,
Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom,
Ripe with colour and rich with grace?”

Said the sweet wild-rose, “Despite your dower
Of finer breeding and deeper hue,
Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower,
It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

“For small account is your hot-house glory
Beside the knowledge that came to me
When I heard by the wayside love’s old story
And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.”

SATIETY

To yearn for what we have not had, to sit
With hungry eyes glued on the Future’s gate,
Why, that is heaven compared to having it
With all the power gone to appreciate.

Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait,
And die at last with unappeased desire,
Than live to be the jest of such a fate,
For that is my conception of hell-fire.

A SOLAR ECLIPSE

In that great journey of the stars through space
About the mighty, all-directing Sun,
The pallid, faithful Moon has been the one
Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,
Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race
Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun,
Shines ever on her lover as they run
And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.

Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
Down from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes,
Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips.
While far and near the men our world call wise
See only that the Sun is in eclipse.

A SUGGESTION
To C. A. D.

Let the wild red-rose bloom. Though not to thee
So delicately perfect as the white
And unwed lily drooping in the light,
Though she has known the kisses of the bee
And tells her amorous tale to passers-by
In perfumed whispers and with untaught grace,
Still let the red-rose bloom in her own place;
She could not be the lily should she try.

Why to the wondrous nightingale cry hush
Or bid her cease her wild heart-breaking lay,
And tune her voice to imitate the way
The whip-poor-will makes music, or the thrush?
All airs of sorrow to one theme belong,
And passion is not copyrighted yet.
Each heart writes its own music. Why not let
The nightingale unchided sing her song?

THE DEPTHS

Not only sun-kissed heights are fair. Below
The cold, dark billows of the frowning deep
Do lovely blossoms of the ocean sleep,
Rocked gently by the waters to and fro.
The coral beds with magic colours glow,
And priceless pearl-encrusted molluscs heap
The glittering rocks where shining atoms leap
Like living broken rainbows.

Even so
We find the sea of sorrow. Black as night
The sullen surface meets our frightened gaze,
As down we sink to darkness and despair.
But at the depths—such beauty! such delight!
Such flowers as never grew in pleasure’s ways!
Ah! not alone are sun-kissed summits fair.

LIFE’S OPERA

Like an opera-house is the world, I ween,
Where the passionate lover of music is seen
In the balcony near the roof:
While the very best seat in the first stage-box
Is filled by the person who laughs and talks
Through the harmony’s warp and woof.

THE SALT SEA-WIND

When Venus, mother and maker of blisses,
Rose out of the billows, large-limbed, and fair,
She stood on the sands and blew sweet kisses
To the salt sea-wind as she dried her hair.

And the salt sea-wind was the first to caress her
To praise her beauty and call her sweet,
The first of the whole wide world to possess her,
She, that creature of light and heat.

Though the sea is old with its sorrows and angers,
And the world has forgotten why love was born,
Yet the salt sea-wind is full of the languors
That Venus taught on her natal morn.

And now whoever dwells there by the ocean,
And feels the wind on his hair and face,
Is stirred by a subtle and keen emotion,
The lingering spell of that first embrace.

NEW YEAR

New Year, I look straight in your eyes—
Our ways and our interests blend;
You may be a foe in disguise,
But I shall believe you a friend.
We get what we give in our measure,
We cannot give pain and get pleasure;
I give you good will and good cheer,
And you must return it, New Year.

We get what we give in this life,
Though often the giver indeed
Waits long upon doubting and strife
Ere proving the truth of my creed.
But somewhere, some way, and for ever
Reward is the meed of endeavour;
And if I am really worth while,
New Year, you will give me your smile.

You hide in your mystical hand
No “luck” that I cannot control,
If I trust my own courage and stand
On the Infinite strength of my soul.
Man holds in his brain and his spirit
A power that is God-like, or near it,
And he who has measured his force
Can govern events and their course.

You come with a crown on your brow,
New Year, without blemish or spot;
Yet you, and not I, sir, must bow,
For time is the servant of thought
Whatever you bring me of trouble
Shall turn into good, and then double,
If my spirit looks up without fear
To the Source that you came from, New Year.

CONCENTRATION

The age is too diffusive. Time and Force
Are frittered out and bring no satisfaction.
The way seems lost to straight determined action.
Like shooting stars that zig-zag from their course
We wander from our orbit’s pathway; spoil
The rôle we’re fitted for, to fail in twenty.
Bring empty measures, that were shaped for plenty,
At last as guerdon for a life of toil.
There’s lack of greatness in this generation
Because no more man centres on one thought.
We know this truth, and yet we heed it not:
The secret of success is Concentration.

THOUGHTS

Thoughts do not need the wings of words
To fly to any goal.
Like subtle lightnings, not like birds,
They speed from soul to soul.

Hide in your heart a bitter thought—
Still it has power to blight;
Think Love—although you speak it not
It gives the world more light.

LUCK

Luck is the tuning of our inmost thought
To chord with God’s great plan.
That done, ah! know,
Thy silent wishes to results shall grow,
And day by day shall miracles be wrought.
Once let thy being selflessly be brought
To chime with universal good, and lo!
What music from the spheres shall through thee flow!
What benefits shall come to thee unsought!

Shut out the noise of traffic! Rise above
The body’s clamour! With the soul’s fine ear
Attune thyself to harmonies divine—
All, all are written in the key of Love.
Keep to the score, and thou hast naught to fear;
Achievements yet undreamed of shall be thine.