Two Sunsets

IN the fair morning of his life,

When his pure heart lay in his breast,

Panting, with all that wild unrest

To plunge into the great world's strife

That fills young hearts with mad desire,

He saw a sunset. Red and gold

The burning billows surged and rolled,

And upward tossed their caps of fire.

He looked. And as he looked the sight

Sent from his soul through breast and brain

Such intense joy, it hurt like pain.

His heart seemed bursting with delight.

So near the Unknown seemed, so close

He might have grasped it with his hand.

He felt his inmost soul expand,

As sunlight will expand a rose.

One day he heard a singing strain--

A human voice, in bird-like trills.

He paused, and little rapture-rills

Went trickling downward through each vein.

And in his heart the whole day long,

As in a temple veiled and dim,

He kept and bore about with him

The beauty of that singer's song.

And then? But why relate what then?

His smoldering heart flamed into fire--

He had his one supreme desire,

And plunged into the world of men.

For years queen Folly held her sway.

With pleasures of the grosser kind

She fed his flesh and drugged his mind,

Till, shamed, he sated turned away.

He sought his boyhood's home. That hour

Triumphant should have been, in sooth,

Since he went forth an unknown youth,

And came back crowned with wealth and power.

The clouds made day a gorgeous bed;

He saw the splendor of the sky

With unmoved heart and stolid eye;

He knew only West was red.

Then suddenly a fresh young voice

Rose, bird-like, from some hidden place,

He did not even turn his face;

It struck him simply as a noise.

He trod the old paths up and down.

Their ruch-hued leaves by Fall winds whirled--

How dull they were--how dull the world--

Dull even in the pulsing town.

O! worst of punishments, that brings

A blunting of all finer sense,

A loss of feelings keen, intense,

And dulls us to the higher things.

O! penalty most dire, most sure,

Swift following after gross delights,

That we no more see beauteous sights,

Or hear as hear the good and pure.

O! shape more hideous and more dread

Than Vengeance takes in creed-taught minds,

This certain doom that blunts and blinds,

And strikes the holiest feelings dead.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"Artist's Life"

OF all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,

mad with melody, rhythm--rife

From the very first to the final note,

Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger ends,

Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest,

And all that is sweetest and saddest blends

Together within my breast.

It brings back that night in the dim arcade,

In love's sweet morning and life's best prime,

When the great brass orchestra played and played,

And set our thoughts to rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of mad delights,

Of leaping pulses and tripping feet,

And those languid moon-washed Summer nights

When we heard the band in the street.

It brings back rapture and glee and glow,

It brings back passion and pain and strife,

And so of all the waltzes I know,

Give me the "Artist's Life."

For it is so full of the dear old time--

So full of the dear friends I knew.

And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,

I am always finding--you.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"It Might Have Been"

WE will be what we could be. Do not say,

"It might have been, had not this, or that, or this."

No fate can keep us from the chosen way;

     He only might who is.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream

Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.

I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;

     He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not

Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.

What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?

     He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase "It might have been!"

It lacks force, and life's best truths perverts:

For I believe we have, and reach, and win,

     Whatever our deserts.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

If

DEAR love, if you and I could sail away,

With snowy pennons to the wind unfurled,

Across the waters of some unknown bay,

And find some island far from all the world;

If we could dwell there, ever more alone,

While unrecorded years slip by apace,

Forgetting and forgotten and unknown

By aught save native song-birds of the place;

If Winter never visited that land,

And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers,

And tropic trees cast shade on every hand,

And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;

If from the fashions of the world set free,

And hid away from all its jealous strife,

I lived alone for you, and you for me--

Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.

But since we dwell here in the crowded way,

Where hurrying throungs rush by to seek for gold,

And all is common-place and work-a-day,

As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old:

Since fashion rules and nature yields to art,

And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,

'T is best to shut such dreams down in the heart

And go our ways alone, love, and forget.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"Advice"

I MUST do as you do? Your way I own

Is a very good way, and still,

There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,

One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,

That the prudent choose each time;

And you think me reckless and rash to-day

Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.

We are not like peas in a pod,

Compelled to lie in a certain line,

Or else be scattered abroad.

'T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,

If we all just went one way;

Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,

Though they lead apart today.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;

You like an even pace,

I like to mix with the crowd and run,

And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm, and strife,

You like a peaceful time;

I like the passion and surge of life,

You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,

And crocuses, framed in snow;

I like roses, born of the heat,

And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,

For so it was written down;

We must follow our given paths to the end,

But I trust we shall meet--in town.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Over the Banisters

OVER the banisters bends a face,

Daringly sweet and beguiling.

Somebody stands in careless grace,

And watches the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below,

Nobody sees her standing,

Saying good-night again, soft and slow,

Half way up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown,

Tender and full of meaning,

That smile on the fairest face in town,

Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,

I wonder why she lingers;

Now, when the good-nights all are said,

Why somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down,

Suddenly growing bolder,

Till the loose hair drops its masses brown,

Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair,

Brush his cheeks like a feather,

And bright brown tresses and dusky hair,

Meet and mingle together.

There's a question asked, there's a swift caress,

She has flown like a bird from the hallway,

But over the banisters drops a "yes,"

That shall brighten the world for him alway.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Past

I FLING the past behind me, like a robe

Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.

I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep

And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes

Of oriental splendor, or complain

That I must needs discard it? I can weave

Upon the shuttles of the future years

A fabric far more durable. Subdued,

It may be, in the blending of its hues,

Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam

Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,

While over all a fadeless luster lies,

And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,

My new robe shall be richer than the old.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Engine

INTO the gloom of the deep, dark night,

With panting breath and a startled scream;

Swift as a bird in sudden flight

Darts this creature of steel and steam.

Awful dangers are lurking nigh,

Rocks and chasms are near the track,

But straight by the light of its great white eye

It speeds through the shadows, dense and black.

Terrible thoughts and fierce desires

Trouble its mad heart many an hour,

Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires,

Coupled ever with might and power.

It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein,

The narrow track by vale and hill;

And shrieks with a cry of startled pain,

And longs to follow its own wild will.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Will

THERE is no chance, no destiny, no fate,

Can circumvent or hinder or control

The firm resolve of a determined soul.

Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;

All things give way before it, soon or late.

What obstacle can stay the mighty force

Of the sea-seeking river in its course,

Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.

Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate

Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,

Whose slightest action or inaction serves

The one great aim.

                     Why, even Death stands still,

And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Two Glasses

THERE sat two glasses, filled to the brim,

On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

One was ruddy and red as blood,

And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,

"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;

I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,

Where I was a king, for I ruled in might;

For the proudest and grandest souls on earth

Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;

From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.

I have blasted many an honored name;

I have taken virtue and given shame;

I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,

That has made his future a barren waste.

Far greater than any king am I,

Or than any army beneath the sky.

I have made the arm of the driver fail,

And sent the train from the iron rail.

I have made good ships go down at sea,

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;

Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine,

"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the water-glass: "I cannot boast

Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,

But I can tell of hearts that were sad

By my crystal drops made bright and glad;

Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;

Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.

I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,

Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.

I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,

And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;

I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;

I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,

That ground out the flower, and turned at my will.

I can tell of manhood debased by you,

That I have uplifted and crowned anew;

I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;

I gladden the heart of man and maid;

I set the wine-chained captive free,

And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,

The glass of wine and its paler brother,

As they sat together, filled to the brim,

On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Year

WHAT can be said in New Year rhymes,

That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,

We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,

We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,

We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,

We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,

And that's the burden of a year.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Leudeman's-on-the-River

TOWARD even when the day leans down,

To kiss the upturned face of night,

Out just beyond the loud-voiced town

I know a spot of calm delight.

Like crimson arrows from a quiver

The red rays pierce the water flowing,

While we go dreaming, singing, rowing,

To Leudeman's-on-the-River.

The hills, like some glad mocking-bird,

Send back our laughter and our singing,

While faint--and yet more faint is heard

The steeple bells all sweetly ringing.

Some message did the winds deliver

To each glad heart that August night,

All heard, but all heard not aright;

By Leudeman's-on-the-River.

Night falls as in some foreign clime,

Between the hills that slope and rise.

So dusk the shades at landing time,

We could not see each other's eyes.

We only saw the moonbeams quiver

Far down upon the stream! that night

The new moon gave but little light

By Leudeman's-on-the-River.

How dusky were those paths that led

Up from the river to the hall.

The tall trees branching overhead

Invite the early shades that fall.

In all the glad blithe world, oh, never

Were hearts more free from care than when

We wandered through those walks, we ten,

By Leudeman's-on-the-River.

So soon, so soon, the changes came.

This August day we two alone,

On that same river, not the same,

Dream of a night forever flown.

Strange distances have come to sever

The hearts that gayly beat in pleasure,

Long miles we cannot cross or measure--

From Leudeman's-on-the-River.

We'll pluck two leaves, dear friend, to-day.

The green, the russet! seems it strange

So soon, so soon, the leaves can change!

Ah, me! so runs all night away

This night wind chills me, and I shiver;

The summer time is almost past.

One more good-bye--perhaps the last

To Leudeman's-on-the-River.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the Long Run

IN the long run fame finds the deserving man.

The lucky wight may prosper for a day,

But in good time true merit leads the van,

And vain pretense, unnoticed, goes its way.

There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,

But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,

            In the long run.

In the long run all goodly sorrow pays,

There is no better thing than righteous pain,

The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,

Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.

Unmeaning joys enervate in the end,

But sorrow yields a glorious dividend

            In the long run.

In the long run all hidden things are known,

The eye of truth will penetrate the night,

And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,

However well 't is guarded from the light.

All the unspoken motives of the breast

Are fathomed by the years and stand confest

            In the long run.

In the long run all love is paid by love,

Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;

The great eternal Governemnt above

Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth.

Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;

So beautiful a thing was never lost

            In the long run.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Fleeing Away

MY thoughts soar not as they ought to soar,

Higher and higher on soul-lent wings;

But ever and often and more and more

They are dragged down earthward by little things,

By little troubles and little needs,

As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.

My purpose is not what it ought to be,

Steady and fixed, like a star on high,

But more like a fisherman's light at sea;

Hither and thither it seems to fly--

Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright,

Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.

My life is far from my dream of life--

Calmly contented, serenely glad;

But, vexed and worried by daily strife,

It is always troubled and ofttimes sad--

And the heights I had thought I should reach one day

Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.

My heart never finds the longed-for rest;

Its worldly striving, its greed for gold,

Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest

Who sometimes sought me in days of old;

And ever fleeing away from me

Is the higher self that I long to be.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Foes

THANK Fate for foes! I hold mine dear

As valued friends. He cannot know

The zest of life who runneth here

His earthly race without a foe.

I saw a prize, "Run," cried my friend;

"'T is thine to claim without a doubt."

But ere I half-way reached the end,

I felt my strength was giving out.

My foe looked on the while I ran;

A scornful triumph lit his eyes.

With that perverseness born in man

I nerved myself, and won the prize.

All blinded by the crimson glow

Of sin's disguise I tempted Fate.

"I knew thy weakness!" sneered my foe,

I saved myself, and balked his hate.

For half my blessings, half my gain,

I needs must thank my trusty foe;

Despite his envy and disdain,

He serves me well wher'er I go.

So may I keep him to the end,

Nor may his enmity abate;

More faithful that the fondest friend,

He guards me with his hate.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Possession

THAT which we had we still possess,

Though leaves may drop and stars may fall;

No circumstance can make it less

Or take it from us, all in all.

That which is lost we did not own;

We only held it for a day--

A leaf by careless breezes blown:

No fate could take our own away.

I hold it as a changeless law

From which no soul can ever sway or swerve,

We have that in us which will draw

Whate'er we need or most deserve.

Even as the magnet to the steel

Our souls are to the best desires;

The Fates have hearts and they can feel--

They know what each true heart requires.

We think we lose when most we gain;

We call joys ended ere begun;

When stars fade out do skies complain,

Or glory in the rising sun?

No fate could rob us of our own--

No circumstance can make it less;

What time removes was but a loan,

For what was ours we still possess.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

My Home

THIS is the place that I love the best,

A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,

Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,

Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen

Sifts through the vine-made window screen--

Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls

On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June the west wind free

The breath of clover brings to me.

All through the languid July day

I catch the scent of new-mown hay.

The morning-glories and scarlet vine

Over the doorway twist and twine;

And every day, when the house is still,

The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun

I sink to sleep when the day is done;

And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,

By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome,

Are the living pictures I see at home--

My aged father, with frosted hair,

And mother's face, like a painting rare.

Far from the city's dust and heat,

I get but sounds and odors sweet.

Who can wonder I love to stay,

Week after week, here hidden away,

In this sly nook that I love the best--

This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox