Chapter 1
Produced by Thierry Alberto, David T. Jones and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
CUSTER
AND
OTHER POEMS
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
Author of "Poems of Passion," "Maurine," "Poems of Pleasure," "How Salvator Won," "The Beautiful Land of Nod," "An Erring Woman's Love," "Men, Women and Emotions," Etc.
CHICAGO: W. B. CONKEY COMPANY.
Published 1896,
By
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
Preface.
"Let such teach others, who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well."
--POPE.
[Transcriber's Note: BOLD characters are denoted by enclosing them with =...= and ITALIC characters are denoted by enclosing them with _..._ ]
=CONTENTS=
=PAGE=
The World's Need 7
High Noon 8
Transformation 10
Thought-Magnets 12
Smiles 13
The Undiscovered Country 15
The Universal Route 16
Earthly Pride 17
Unanswered Prayers 18
Thanksgiving 20
A Maiden to Her Mirror 22
The Kettle 23
Contrasts 25
Thy Ship 26
The Tryst 28
Life 31
A Marine Etching 32
The Duel 33
"Love Thyself Last" 35
Christmas Fancies 37
The River 40
Sorry 42
The Old Wooden Cradle 44
Ambition's Trail 46
The Traveled Man 47
Uncontrolled 49
The Tulip Bed at Greeley Square 50
Will 52
To An Astrologer 53
The Tendril's Faith 55
The Times 56
The Question 57
Sorrow's Uses 58
If 59
Which Are You? 60
The Creed To Be 62
Music in the Flat 64
Inspiration 67
The Wish 68
Three Friends 69
You Never Can Tell 71
Here and Now 72
Unconquered 74
All That Love Asks 75
Does It Pay 77
Sestina 78
The Optimist 80
The Pessimist 81
The Hammock's Complaint 82
Life's Harmonies 83
Preaching vs. Practice 84
An Old Man to His Sleeping Young Bride 85
I Am 87
Two Nights 89
Preparation 91
Custer 93
=The World's Need=
So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind, Is all the sad world needs.
=High Noon=
Time's finger on the dial of my life Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark, Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light. Long life is sadder than an early death. We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink How brief the past, the future still more brief, Calls on to action, action! Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Have I done nobly? Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame. Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn. Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls So pity may shine through them.
Looking back, My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones That led the way to knowledge of the truth And made me value virtue; sorrows shine In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years, Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth, Out to the western sky still bright with noon, I feel well spurred and booted for the strife That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men and with myself, Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon, Three things I learned, three things of precious worth To guide and help me down the western slope. I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save. To pray for courage to receive what comes, Knowing what comes to be divinely sent. To toil for universal good, since thus And only thus can good come unto me. To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have To those who have not, this alone is gain.
=Transformation=
She waited in a rose-hued room; A wanton-hearted creature she, But beautiful and bright to see As some great orchid just in bloom.
Upon wide cushions stretched at ease She lolled in garments filmy fine, Which but enhanced each rounded line; A living picture, framed to please.
A bold electric eye of light Leered through its ruddy screen of lace And feasted on her form and face As some wine-crimsoned roué might.
From wall and niche, nude nymph beguiled Fair goddesses of world-wide fame, But Psyche's self was put to shame By one who from the cushions smiled.
Exotic blossoms from a vase Their sweet narcotic breath exhaled; The lights, the objects round her paled-- She lost the sense of time and place.
She seemed to float upon the air, Untrammeled, unrestricted, free; And rising from a vapory sea She saw a form divinely fair.
A beauteous being in whose face Shone all things sweet and true and good. The innocence of maidenhood, The motherhood of all the race.
The warmth which comes from heavenly fire, The strength which leads the weaker man To climb to God's Eternal plan And conquer and control desire.
She shook as with a mighty awe, For, gazing on this shape which stood Embodying all true womanhood, She knew it was _herself_ she saw.
She woke as from a dream. But when The laughing lover, light and bold Came with his talk of wine and gold He gazed, grew silent, gazed again;
Then turned abashed from those calm eyes Where lurked no more the lure to sin. Her higher self had entered in, Her path led now to Paradise.
=Thought-Magnets=
With each strong thought, with every earnest longing For aught thou deemest needful to thy soul, Invisible vast forces are set thronging Between thee and that goal.
'Tis only when some hidden weakness alters And changes thy desire, or makes it less, That this mysterious army ever falters Or stops short of success.
Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel; And its attainment hangs but on the measure Of what thy soul can feel.
=Smiles=
Smile a little, smile a little, As you go along, Not alone when life is pleasant, But when things go wrong. Care delights to see you frowning, Loves to hear you sigh; Turn a smiling face upon her, Quick the dame will fly.
Smile a little, smile a little, All along the road; Every life must have its burden, Every heart its load. Why sit down in gloom and darkness, With your grief to sup? As you drink Fate's bitter tonic, Smile across the cup.
Smile upon the troubled pilgrims Whom you pass and meet; Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms Oft for weary feet.
Do not make the way seem harder By a sullen face, Smile a little, smile a little, Brighten up the place.
Smile upon your undone labor; Not for one who grieves O'er his task, waits wealth or glory; He who smiles achieves. Though you meet with loss and sorrow In the passing years, Smile a little, smile a little, Even through your tears.
=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!
=The Universal Route=
As we journey along, with a laugh and a song, We see, on youth's flower-decked slope, Like a beacon of light, shining fair on the sight, The beautiful Station of Hope.
But the wheels of old Time roll along as we climb, And our youth speeds away on the years; And with hearts that are numb with life's sorrows we come To the mist-covered Station of Tears.
Still onward we pass, where the milestones, alas! Are the tombs of our dead, to the West, Where glitters and gleams, in the dying sunbeams, The sweet, silent Station of Rest.
All rest is but change, and no grave can estrange The soul from its Parent above; And, scorning the rod, it soars back to its God, To the limitless City of Love.
=Earthly Pride=
How baseless is the mightiest earthly pride, The diamond is but charcoal purified, The lordliest pearl that decks a monarch's breast Is but an insect's sepulchre at best.
=Unanswered Prayers=
Like some school master, kind in being stern, Who hears the children crying o'er their slates And calling, "Help me master!" yet helps not, Since in his silence and refusal lies Their self-development, so God abides Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf To any cry sent up from earnest hearts, He hears and strengthens when He must deny. He sees us weeping over life's hard sums But should He give the key and dry our tears What would it profit us when school were done And not one lesson mastered?
What a world Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills As lie in human hearts. Should our desires Voiced one by one in prayer ascend to God And come back as events shaped to our wish What chaos would result!
In my fierce youth I sighed out breath enough to move a fleet Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons Which were denied; and that denial bends My knee to prayers of gratitude each day Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers I rose alway regirded for the strife And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart, That which thou pleadest for may not be given But in the lofty altitude where souls Who supplicate God's grace are lifted there Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot Which is not elsewhere found.
=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.
=A Maiden To Her Mirror=
He said he loved me! Then he called my hair Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow, My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow; And swore my round, full throat would bring despair To Venus or to Psyche.
Time and care Will fade these locks; the merry god, I trow, Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow. How will it be when I, no longer fair, Plead for his kiss with cheeks whence long ago The early snowflakes melted quite away, The rose leaf died--and in whose sallow clay Lie the deep sunken tracks of life's gaunt crow?
When this full throat shall wattle fold on fold, Like some ripe peach left drying on a wall, Or like a spent accordion, when all Its music has exhaled--will love grow cold?
=The Kettle=
There's many a house of grandeur, With turret, tower and dome, That knows not peace or comfort, And does not prove a home. _I_ do not ask for splendor To crown my daily lot, But this I ask--a kitchen Where the kettle's always hot.
If things are not all ship-shape, I do not fume or fret, A little clean disorder Does not my nerves upset. But _one_ thing is essential, Or seems so to my thought, And that's a tidy kitchen Where the kettle's always hot.
In my Aunt Hattie's household, Though skies outside are drear, Though times are dark and troubled, You'll always find good cheer. And in her quaint old kitchen-- The very homiest spot-- The kettle's always singing, The water's always hot.
And if you have a headache, Whate'er the hour may be, There is no tedious waiting To get your cup of tea. I don't know how she does it-- Some magic she has caught-- For the kitchen's cool in summer, Yet the kettle's always hot.
Oh, there's naught else so dreary In household kingdom found As a cold and sullen kettle That does not make a sound. And I think that love is lacking In the hearts in such a spot, Or the kettle would be singing And the water would be hot.
=Contrasts=
I see the tall church steeples, They reach so far, so far, But the eyes of my heart see the world's great mart, Where the starving people are.
I hear the church bells ringing Their chimes on the morning air; But my soul's sad ear is hurt to hear The poor man's cry of despair.
Thicker and thicker the churches, Nearer and nearer the sky But alack for their creeds while the poor man's needs Grow deeper as years roll by.
=Thy Ship=
Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored The priceless riches of all climes and lands, Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport, And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?
Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed Lies all the wealth of this vast universe-- Yea, lies some part of God's omnipotence The legacy divine of every soul. Thy will, O man, thy will is that great ship, And yet behold it drifting here and there-- One moment lying motionless in port, Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung,
Then drying on the sands, and yet again Sent forth on idle quests to no-man's land To carry nothing and to nothing bring; Till worn and fretted by the aimless strife And buffeted by vacillating winds It founders on a rock, or springs aleak With all its unused treasures in the hold.
Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel And steer to knowledge, glory and success. Great mariners have made the pathway plain For thee to follow; hold thou to the course Of Concentration Channel, and all things Shall come in answer to thy swerveless wish As comes the needle to the magnet's call, Or sunlight to the prisoned blade of grass That yearns all winter for the kiss of spring.
=The Tryst=
Just when all hope had perished in my soul, And balked desire made havoc with my mind, My cruel Ladye suddenly grew kind, And sent these gracious words upon a scroll: "When knowing Night her dusky scarf has tied Across the bold, intrusive eyes of day, Come as a glad, triumphant lover may, No longer fearing that he be denied."
I read her letter for the hundredth time, And for the hundredth time my gladdened sight Blurred with the rapture of my vast delight, And swooned upon the page. I caught the chime Of far off bells, and at each silver note My heart on tiptoe pressed its eager ear Against my breast; it was such joy to hear The tolling of the hour of which she wrote.
The curious day still lingered in the skies And watched me as I hastened to the tryst. And back, beyond great clouds of amethyst, I saw the Night's soft, reassuring eyes. "Oh, Night," I cried, "dear Love's considerate friend, Haste from the far, dim valleys of the west, Rock the sad striving earth to quiet rest, And bid the day's insistent vigil end."
Down brooding streets, and past the harbored ships The Night's young handmaid, Twilight, walked with me. A spent moon leaned inertly o'er the sea; A few, pale, phantom stars were in eclipse. There was the house, My Ladye's sea-girt bower All draped in gloom, save for one taper's glow, Which lit the path, where willing feet would go. There was the house, and this the promised hour.
The tide was out; and from the sea's salt path Rose amorous odors, filtering through the night And stirring all the senses with delight; Sweet perfumes left since Aphrodite's bath. Back in the wooded copse, a whip-poor-will Gave love's impassioned and impatient call. On pebbled sands I heard the waves kiss fall, And fall again, so hushed the hour and still.
Light was my knock upon the door, so light, And yet the sound seemed rude. My pulses beat So loud they drowned the coming of her feet The arrow of her taper pierced the gloom-- The portal closed behind me. She was there-- Love on her lips and yielding in her eyes And but the sea to hear our vows and sighs. She took my hand and led me up the stair.
=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.
=A Marine Etching=
A yacht from its harbor ropes pulled free, And leaped like a steed o'er the race track blue, Then up behind her, the dust of the sea, A gray fog drifted, and hid her from view.
=The Duel=
Oh many a duel the world has seen That was bitter with hate, that was red with gore, But I sing of a duel by far more cruel Than ever by poet was sung before. It was waged by night, yea by day and by night, With never a pause or halt or rest, And the curious spot where this battle was fought Was the throbbing heart in a woman's breast.
There met two rivals in deadly strife, And they fought for this woman so pale and proud. One was a man in the prime of life, And one was a corpse in a moldy shroud; One wrapped in a sheet from his head to his feet, The other one clothed in worldly fashion; But a rival to dread is a man who is dead, If he has been loved in life with passion.
The living lover he battled with sighs, He strove for the woman with words that burned, While stiff and stark lay the corpse in the dark, And silently yearned and yearned and yearned. One spoke of the rapture that life still held For hearts that yielded to love's desire, And one through the cold grave's earthy mold Sent thoughts of a past that were fraught with fire.
The living lover seized hold of her hands-- "You are mine," he cried, "and we will not part!" But she felt the clutch of the dead man's touch On the tense-drawn strings of her aching heart. Yet the touch was of ice, and she shrank with fear-- Oh! the hands of the dead are cold, so cold-- And warm were the arms that waited near To gather her close in their clinging fold.
And warm was the light in the living eyes, But the eyes of the dead, how they stare and stare! With sudden surrender she turned to the tender And passionate lover who wooed her there. Farewell to sorrow, hail, sweet to-morrow! The battle was over, the duel was done. They swooned in the blisses of love's fond kisses, And the dead man stared on in the dark alone.
="Love Thyself Last"=
Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty To those who walk beside thee down life's road; Make glad their days by little acts of beauty, And help them bear the burden of earth's load.
Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger, Who staggers 'neath his sin and his despair; Go lend a hand, and lead him out of danger, To hights where he may see the world is fair.
Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee Are filled with Spirit Forces, strong and pure. And fervently, these faithful friends shall love thee: Keep thou thy watch o'er others and endure.
Love thyself last; and oh, such joy shall thrill thee, As never yet to selfish souls was given. Whate'er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee, And earth shall seem the ante-room of Heaven.
Love thyself last, and them shall grow in spirit To see, to hear, to know, and understand. The message of the stars, lo, thou shall hear it, And all God's joys shall be at thy command.
=Christmas Fancies=
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago. And etched on vacant places, Are half forgotten faces Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know-- When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near, We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear, That continent Elysian Long vanished from our vision, Youth's lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear, Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth, The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth, And draws from youth's recesses Some memory it possesses, And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth, When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss. Not all the seers and sages With wisdom of the ages Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.