OFT POISONED IS THE WINE OF LIFE.
Socrates drank of the hemlock;—
Others drink of poisons deadly.—
Poison as a draught of hemlock
Will unrequited love aye be.
And ingratitude of loved ones
Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is,
And misunderstandings cruel
That ever meet us on Life’s way.
Often we are greeted coldly,
By the ones who should be friendly.
We may fall, and we may falter.
Life’s battles we may never win.
Others soon will take our places.
Take the love, and take the friendship,
Which was ours by laws most holy,
And love is now but in the name.
Hemlock would not be as poisonous,
Nor would be so hard its taking.
As cold words of bitter taunting
From trusted friends whom we have loved.
Faithless friends may give a chalice,
Filled with poison just as deadly,
As the hemlock which was drunken
By Socrates in that long past.
Every day we meet deception
From some one we loved, and trusted.
Poison may be in each vessel
From which we drink the wine of Life.
THE GAME OF LIFE.
Would we turn back the wheel of Time,
And live this life all o’er?
Take up the threads of life anew,
And weave them as before?
Methinks I hear you say “Ah no!”
Life’s fabric is worn out.
The colors too, have lost their hue.—
I would not turn about
And live my life all o’er again,
Unless I could improve
Upon the game of Life I’ve played;
More skillfully could move.
For I have oft made dire mistakes,
Made errors in Life’s deal,
And could I change the game, would it
Add something to my weal?
I never learned Life’s game quite right;
Mistakes I ever made,
And if I gained a single point,
My ignorance next outweighed
All I had gained in former move.
I ever lost in game.
It seems I ever lacked in skill,
If so, I’m not to blame.
And now the game I must give up,
But I will not despair.
I will begin all o’er again—
Defeat I cannot bear.
But it will not be on this earth;
For here I’m done with life.
I’ve played Life’s game, and ever lost,
To live is naught but strife.
“THE OLD, OLD STORY.”
Come into the garden sweet Lilith
When the clock in the tower strikes nine.
When the moon by the hill tops is hidden,
For thine eyes e’er the moonbeams outshine.
Come into the garden my loved one,
While the nightingales sing in the trees.
All th’ air is filled with the fragrance
That the flowers send forth to the breeze.
Come into the garden and meet me
Beneath the old oak on the lawn.
To thee I will tell the same story
That was told at the world’s first dawn.
Come into the garden sweet Lilith,
To thee, I’d anew my vows plight.
Again I would speak to thee love words,
Again by the moon’s waning light.
Come into the garden my Lilith,
The meadow lark chants his love song.
E’en the trees are whispering sweet love notes,
For they to each other belong.
Come into the garden sweet Lilith,
Where the fire-flies seem dancing around.
They are plighting their love to each other,
Their love smiles light up all the ground.
Come into the garden sweet Lilith,
O listen, sweetheart, to my plea.
The trees, and the birds, and the fire-flies
Tell their love; then why should not we?
My heart is with love overflowing,
I would clasp thee in Love’s close embrace.
If parted from thee my sweet Lilith,
Thy love I could never efface.
THE GHOST OF LOVE.
Thou art a specious pleader,
But thou dost plead in vain.
Though once I loved, and trusted,
My love and trust thou’st slain.
Though in the past were hidden
Thy many faults from me;
As phantoms they now haunt me,
As ghosts, those faults I see.
The mask that ever covered
The evil in thy life,
From thy false face hath fallen,
And now thy passions rife
Stand out in greatest contrast
From what they seemed in past.
To me ’tis revelation—
With awe I stand aghast.
And feel a sense of horror,
That love should come to me
For one whose life was hideous,
But now,—Thank God I’m free!
Free from the ties that bound me,
Free from the chains of ill.—
Thy love no more enthralls me,
And yet—O heart be still!
I find that love, and pity
Lie deep within my heart.
I cannot, cannot hate thee—
Thou art of life a part.
Farewell! Farewell! ’Tis better
For both; that we are free.
For life, when trust hath left us
Is naught but misery.
I SHALL SING IT SOMETIME.
There is a poem somewhere
That is perfect in its time;
That is perfect in its metre,
That is perfect in its rhyme.
It is written on the flowers,
It is floating in the air;
It is written on the hill tops,
It is singing everywhere.
And I know sometime I’ll write it—
It is singing in my brain.
I will seek it, I will find it,
In my soul it long has lain.
When I try to grasp this poem,
It eludes me ever, aye—
It is ever just beyond me,
Though I hear it night and day.
It is sung by hosts unnumbered,
And was heard when world was new.
It is heard when storm-clouds gather,
And in glistening drops of dew.
’Tis the singing of the flowers,
’Tis the music of the stars.
’Tis the rhythm of the ocean,
And most perfect are its bars.
In the universe ’tis written,
And it is so sweet, and rare—
It was written by the Master,
It inspires every prayer.
O if I could catch the rhythm
That aye fills the universe—
That is sung by choir of angels;
Inspired would be my verse.
In Cathedral ’tis resounding,
Chanted ’tis at altar pure;
And the rhythm haunts me ever—
Spirit song which doth allure.
It is stately in its measure,
Though it be a sad refrain;
Though it be a merry jingle
That goes dancing through my brain.
Yet it may be but the echo
Of a symphony, or dirge,
Or a mother’s loving ditty,
That may through my brain e’er surge.
’Tis the waterfall’s loud roaring,
Or the humming of the bee.
’Tis the raging of the tempest
As it moans upon the sea.
’Tis the detonating cannon,
Or the sigh of dying leaf.
’Tis a song of glad rejoicing,
Or a threnody of grief.
’Tis the ghost of an old love song,
Or the spirit of a prayer.
’Tis a wail of deepest anguish,
And I hear it everywhere.
It is floating in the ether,
It is written in the sky;
But wherever may be poem,
I shall sing it by and by.
Be it song, or be it anthem—
It doth in my heart e’er lie;
And my soul for song is waiting,
I shall sing it by and by.