Any edition of my Poems published in Great Britain by any firm except Messrs. Gay and Hancock is pirated and not authentic.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

April 12th, 1910.

The winding paths that lead up to the heights
Are polished by the footsteps of the great.
The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon
Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.

Here are no sounds of discord—no profane
Or senseless gossip of unworthy things—
Only the songs of chisels and of pens,
Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains
Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief
For any day or object left behind—
For time is counted precious, and herein
Is such complete abandonment of Self
That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance
The beauty of the land where all is fair.
Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here
Where the great artists of the world have trod—
The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
Only the singer of a little song;
Yet loving Art with such a mighty love
I hold it greater to have won a place
Just on the fair land’s edge, to make my grave,
Than in the outer world of greed and gain
To sit upon a royal throne and reign.

It is easy enough to be pleasant
   When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is the one who will smile
   When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
   And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
   Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent
   When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
   Is luring your soul away;
But it’s only a negative virtue
   Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honour on earth
   Is the one that resists desire.

All wondering, and eager-eyed, within her portico
I made my plea to Hostess Life, one morning long ago.

“Pray show me this great house of thine, nor close a single door;
But let me wander where I will, and climb from floor to floor!

For many rooms, and curious things, and treasures great and small
Within your spacious mansion lie, and I would see them all.”

Then Hostess Life turned silently, her searching gaze on me,
And with no word, she reached her hand, and offered up the key.

And then a door whereon the one word “Happiness” was writ;
But when I tried the little key I could not make it fit.

It turned the lock of Pleasure’s room, where first all seemed so bright—
But after I had stayed awhile it somehow lost its light.

And wandering down a lonely hall, I came upon a room
Marked “Duty,” and I entered it—to lose myself in gloom.

Along the shadowy halls I groped my weary way about,
And found that from dull Duty’s room, a door of Toil led out.

It led out to another door, whereon a crimson stain
Made sullenly against the dark these words: “The Room of Pain.”

And when I came forth from that place, I tried the little key—
And lo! the door of Happiness swung open, wide and free.

In the rapture of life and of living,
   I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
   The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
   In the sweet-scented, sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather—
   They are nothing to bear.

In the strength and the glory of power,
   In the pride and the pleasure of wealth
(For who dares dispute me my dower
   Of talents and youth-time and health?),
I can laugh at the world and its sages—
   I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
   Who knows how to be glad.

Come out of the world—come above it—
   Up over its crosses and graves,
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
   We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises—
   But only the perfume of flowers—
And your life shall be glad with surprises
   Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
   Apollo distills in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is,
   And as full of delight.

I do not undertake to say
   That literal answers come from Heaven,
But I know this—that when I pray
   A comfort, a support is given
That helps me rise o’er earthly things
As larks soar up on airy wings.

In vain the wise philosopher
   Points out to me my fabric’s flaws,
In vain the scientists aver
   That “all things are controlled by laws.”
My life has taught me day by day
That it availeth much to pray.

I do not stop to reason out
   The why and how.  I do not care,
Since I know this, that when I doubt,
   Life seems a blackness of despair,
The world a tomb; and when I trust,
Sweet blossoms spring up in the dust.

Prayer has a sweet, refining grace,
   It educates the soul and heart.
It lends a lustre to the face,
   And by its elevating art
It gives the mind an inner sight
That brings it near the Infinite.

From our gross selves it helps us rise
   To something which we yet may be.
And so I ask not to be wise,
   If thus my faith is lost to me.
Faith, that with angel’s voice and touch
Says, “Pray, for prayer availeth much.”

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 pretence, 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 godly 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 love is paid by love,
   Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;
The great eternal Government 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.

Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life;
   And even when you find them,
It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind,
   And look for the virtue behind them;
For the cloudiest night has a hint of light
   Somewhere in its shadows hiding;
It’s better by far to hunt for a star,
   Than the spots on the sun abiding.

The current of life runs ever away
   To the bosom of God’s great ocean.
Don’t set your force ’gainst the river’s course,
   And think to alter its motion.
Don’t waste a curse on the universe,
   Remember, it lived before you;
Don’t butt at the storm with your puny form,
   But bend and let it go o’er you.

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 hands
   He felt his inmost soul expand,
As sunlight will expand a rose

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 smouldering 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.

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 rich-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.

In the youth of the year, when the birds were building,
   When the green was showing on tree and hedge,
And the tenderest light of all lights was gilding
   The world from zenith to outermost edge,
My soul grew sad and longingly lonely!
   I sighed for the season of sun and rose,
And I said, “In the Summer and that time only
   Lies sweet contentment and blest repose.”

With bee and bird for her maids of honour
   Came Princess Summer in robes of green.
And the King of day smiled down upon her
   And wooed her, and won her, and made her queen.
Fruit of their union and true love’s pledges,
   Beautiful roses bloomed day by day,
And rambled in gardens and hid in hedges
   Like royal children in sportive play.

But now when the colours are almost blinding,
   Burning and blending on bush and tree,
And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding,
   And the year is ripe as a year can be,
My soul complains in the same old fashion;
   Crying aloud in my troubled breast
Is the same old longing, the same old passion.
   O where is the treasure which men call rest?

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.

For it is so full of the dear old time—
   So full of the dear old friends I knew.
And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,
   I am always finding—you.

I think I never passed so sad an hour,
   Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
   Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging,
   Each richly robed like some king’s bidden guest.
“Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,”
   I said, “and here find rest.”

I heard the heavenly organ’s voice of thunder,
   It seemed to give me infinite relief.
I wept.  Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder.
   I dried my tears: their gaze profaned my grief.
Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks, and laces,
   Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me.
I could not read, in all those proud cold faces,
   One thought of sympathy.

Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding
   Of soul with body, heart with heated brain;
Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding
   And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain.
And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly,
   So unassuming, and so gently kind,
And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy,
   Settled upon my mind.

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender,
   That understands our troubles and our needs,
Brings us more near to God than all the splendour
   And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.
One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling,
   Doth bring me closer to the Infinite
Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling
   In blaze of gorgeous light.

To-day I was so weary and I lay
   In that delicious state of semi-waking,
When baby, sitting with his nurse at play,
   Cried loud for “mamma,” all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest,
   And signed to nurse to bear him from the room.
Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast,
   And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me,
   With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears,
Of days inevitable, that are to be,
   If my fair darling grows to manhood’s years;

When other homes and loves shall give delight,
   When younger smiles and voices will seem best.
And so I held him to my heart to-night,
   Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.

In a land beyond sight or conceiving,
   In a land where no blight is, no wrong,
No darkness, no graves, and no grieving,
   There lies the great ocean of song.
And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden
   By any save gods, and their kind,
Are not blue, are not green, but are golden,
   Like moonlight and sunlight combined.

It was whispered to me that their waters
   Were made from the gathered-up tears
That were wept by the sons and the daughters
   Of long-vanished eras and spheres.
Like white sands of heaven the spray is
   That falls all the happy day long,
And whoever it touches straightway is
   Made glad with the spirit of song.

Bright birds from all climes and all regions,
   That sing the whole glad summer long,
Are dumb, till they flock here in legions
   And lave in the ocean of song.
It is here that the four winds of heaven,
   The winds that do sing and rejoice,
It is here they first came and were given
   The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down along beautiful beeches,
   By night and by glorious day,
The throng of the gifted ones reaches,
   Their foreheads made white with the spray,
And a few of the sons and the daughters
   Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight,
Go down in the wonderful waters,
   And bathe in those billows of light.

We will be what we could be.  Do not say,
   “It might have been, had not 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 all force, and life’s best truths perverts
For I believe we have, and reach, and win,
      Whatever our deserts.

Though with gods the world is cumbered,
Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered,
Never god was known to be
Who had not his devotee.
So I dedicate to mine,
Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

’Tis not Ares,—mighty Mars,
Who can give success in wars.
’Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep
Guard above us while we sleep,
’Tis not Venus, she whose duty
’Tis to give us love and beauty;
Hail to these, and others, after
Momus, gleesome god of laughter.

Quirinus would guard my health,
Plutus would insure me wealth;
Mercury looks after trade,
Hera smiles on youth and maid.
All are kind, I own their worth,
After Momus, god of mirth.

Wisdom wearies, Love has wings—
Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings,
Glory proves a thorny crown—
So all gifts the gods throw down
Bring their pains and troubles after;
All save Momus, god of laughter.
He alone gives constant joy.
Hail to Momus, happy boy.

Oh, I have dreams.  I sometimes dream of Life
   In the full meaning of that splendid word.
   Its subtle music which few men have heard,
Though all may hear it, sounding through earth’s strife.
Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed
   Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust;
   Its treasures which no touch of time can rust,
Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst,
   Its certain purpose, its serene repose,
   Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes,
      This is my dream of Life.

Yes, yes, I dream.  One oft-recurring dream
   Is beautiful and comforting and blest,
   Complete with certain promises of rest,
Divine content, and ecstasy supreme.
When that strange essence, author of all faith,
   That subtle something, which cries for the light,
   Like a lost child who wanders in the night,
Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death,
   Shall find eternal progress, or sublime
   And satisfying slumber for all time.
      This is my dream of Death.

Alone it stands in Poesy’s fair land,
   A temple by the muses set apart;
   A perfect structure of consummate art,
By artists builded and by genius planned,
Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand,
   Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,
   Like a fine carving in a common mart,
Only the favoured few will understand.
A chef-d’œvre toiled over with great care,
   Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,
A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire,
An ancient bit of pottery, too rare
   To please or hold aught save the special eye,
These only with the sonnet can compare.

Fling my past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it.  Wherefore should I weep
And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes
Of Oriental splendour, 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 sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.

That was a curious dream; I thought the three
   Great planets that are drawing near the sun
   With such unerring certainty begun
To talk together in a mighty glee.
They spoke of vast convulsions which would be
   Throughout the solar system—the rare fun
   Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one,
And vanish in a seething vapour sea.

I thought I heard them comment on the earth—
   That small dark object—doomed beyond a doubt.
   They wondered if live creatures moved about
Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth.
   And then they laughed—’twas such a singing shout
That I awoke and joined too in their mirth.

Let mine not be that saddest fate of all
   To live beyond my greater self; to see
   My faculties decaying, as the tree
Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall.
Let me hear rather the imperious call,
   Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,
   And follow death ere I have reached my prime,
Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life’s gall.
The lightning’s stroke or the fierce tempest blast
   Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
   Unhappy witness of its own decay.
   May no man ever look on me and say,
“She lives, but all her usefulness is past.”

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 serve.
The one great aim.
         Why, even Death stands still,
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

Falling upon the frozen world last
I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain—
Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain;
The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might,
Far better had the fixedness of white
And uncomplaining snows—which make no sign,
But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine—
Concealed its sorrow from all human sight.
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,
I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.
Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow,
   I do not waste the gall now of my tears,
   But feed my pride upon its bitter, while
I look straight in the world’s bold eyes, and smile.

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee,
Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time.
There is no path too steep for him to climb.
With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free,
As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea,
   By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime,
   And all the world seems motion set to rhyme,
Till, tired out, he cries, “Now carry me!”
   In vain we murmur; “Come,” Life says, “Fair play!”
And seizes on us.  God! he goads us so!
   He does not let us sit down all the day.
At each new step we feel the burden grow,
Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go,
   Watching for Death to meet us on the way.

“Genius, a man’s weapon, a woman’s burden.”—Lamartine.

Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life
   Than to be burdened so that you can not
   Sit down contented with the common lot
Of happy mother and devoted wife.

To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife
   With all the sea’s commotion; to be fraught
   With fires and frenzies which you have not sought,
And weighed down with the wild world’s weary strife;

To feel a fever always in your breast;
   To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame,
   A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name;
To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest,
   And know, however great your meed of fame,
You are but a weak woman at the best.

Let the dream go.  Are there not other dreams
   In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight
That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams,
   And shoot the shadows through and through with light?
   What matters one lost vision of the night?
         Let the dream go!!

Let the hope set.  Are there not other hopes
   That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?
Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes
   Before some light is lent it from on high;
   What folly to think happiness gone by!
         Let the hope set!

Let the joy fade.  Are there not other joys,
   Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom?
Severe must be the winter that destroys
   The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb.
   What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom
         Let the joy fade!

The Mother’s Kiss
I

Love breathed a secret to her listening heart,
   And said “Be silent.”  Though she guarded it,
And dwelt as one within a world apart,
   Yet sun and star seemed by that secret lit.
And where she passed, each whispering wind ablow,
   And every little blossom in the sod,
Called joyously to her, “We know, we know,
   For are we not the intimates of God?”
Life grew so radiant, and so opulent,
   That when her fragile body and her brain
By mortal throes of agony were rent,
   She felt a curious rapture in her pain.
Then, after anguish, came the supreme bliss—
They brought the little baby, for her kiss!

There was a little pause between the dances;
   Without, somewhere, a tinkling fountain played.
The dusky path was lit by ardent glances
   As forth they fared, a lover and a maid.
He chose a nook, from curious eyes well hidden—
   All redolent with sweet midsummer charm,
And by the great primeval instinct bidden,
   He drew her in the shelter of his arm.
The words that long deep in his heart had trembled
Found sudden utterance; she at first dissembled,
   Refused her lips, and half withdrew her hand,
Then murmured “Yes,” and yielded, woman fashion,
Her virgin mouth to young love’s kiss of passion.

The Bridal Kiss
III

The world receded, leaving them alone.
   The universe was theirs, from sphere to sphere,
And life assumed new meaning, and new worth.
Love held no privilege they did not own,
   And when they kissed each other without fear,
They understood why God had made the earth.

Domestic Bliss
IV

Old Age
V

The young see heaven—but to the old who wait
   The final call, the hills of youth arise
   More beautiful than shores of Paradise.
Beside a glowing and voracious grate
   A dozing couple dream of yesterday;
The islands of a vanished past appear,
Bringing forgotten names and faces near;
   While lost in mist, the present fades away.
The fragrant winds of tender memories blow
   Across the gardens of the “Used-to-be!”
   They smile into each other’s eyes, and see
The bride and bridegroom of the long ago.
   And tremulous lips, pressed close to faded cheek
   Love’s silent tale of deathless passion speak.