Poems of Experience - Ella Wheeler Wilcox (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

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 {1}

 

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.

I

Pleasure seekers, silken clad, Led by cherub Day, Ours the duty to be glad, Ours the toil of play.

Sleep has bound the commonplace, Pleasure rules the dawn. Small hours set the merry pace And we follow on.

We must use the joys of earth, All its cares we’ll keep; Night was made for youth and mirth, Day was made for sleep.

Time has cut his beard, and lo! He is but a boy, Singing, on with him we go, Ah! but life is joy.

II

We are the vendors of beauty, We the purveyors for hell; The carnal bliss of a purchased kiss And the pleasures that blight, we sell. God pity us; God pity the world.

We are the sad race-victims Of the misused force in man, Of the great white flame burned black with shame And lost to the primal plan. God pity us; God pity the world.

We are the Purpose of Being Gone wrong in the thought of the world. The torch for its hand made a danger brand And into the darkness hurled. God pity us; God pity the world.

III

We are the toilers in the realm of night (Long, long the hours of night), We