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!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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 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?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox