ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

April 12, 1910.

When silence flees before the voice of Love,
Of what expression does that god approve?
Is dulcet song or flowing verse his choice,
Or stately prose, made regal by his voice?
Speaks Love in couplets, or in epics grand?
And is Love humble, or does he command?

There is no language that Love does not speak:
To-day commanding and to-morrow meek,
One hour laconic and the next verbose,
With hope triumphant and with doubt morose,
His varying moods all forms of speech employ.
To give expression to his painful joy,

Between the little Here and larger Yonder,
   There is a realm (or so one day I read)
Where faithful spirits love-enchained may wander,
   Till some remembering soul from earth has fled.
Then, reunited, they go forth afar,
From sphere to sphere, where wondrous angels are.

Not many spirits in that realm are waiting;
   Not many pause upon its shores to rest;
For only love, intense and unabating,
   Can hold them from the longer, higher quest.
And after grief has wept itself to sleep,
Few hearts on earth their vital memories keep.

Wert thou first called (dear God, how could I bear it?)
   I should enchain thee with my love, I know.
Not great enough am I to free thy spirit
   From all these tender ties, and bid thee go.
Nor would a soul, unselfish as thine own,
Forget so soon, and speed to heaven alone.

On earth we find no joy in ways diverging;
   How could we find it in the worlds unseen?
I know old memories from my bosom surging,
   Would keep thee waiting in that Land Between,
Until together, side by side, we trod
A path of stars, in our great search for God.

Midway upon the route, he paused athirst
   And suddenly across the wastes of heat,
   He saw cool waters gleaming, and a sweet
Green oasis upon his vision burst.
A tender dream, long in his bosom nursed,
   Spread love’s illusive verdure for his feet;
   The barren sands changed into golden wheat;
The way grew glad that late had seemed accursed.

She shone, the woman wonder, on his soul;
   The garden spot, for which men toil and wait;
      The house of rest, that is each heart’s demand;
But when, at last, he reached the gleaming goal,
   He found, oh, cruel irony of fate,
      But desert sun upon the desert sand.

I know the need of the world,
   Though it would not have me know.
It would hide its sorrow deep,
   Where only God may go.
Yet its secret it can not keep;
It tells it awake, or asleep,
It tells it to all who will heed,
And he who runs may read.
   The need of the world I know.

I know the need of the world,
   When it boasts of its wealth the loudest,
When it flaunts it in all men’s eyes,
   When its mien is the gayest and proudest.
Oh! ever it lies—it lies,
For the sound of its laughter dies
In a sob and a smothered moan,
And it weeps when it sits alone.
   The need of the world I know.

I know the need of the world.
   When it babbles of gold and fame,
It is only to lead us astray
   From the thing that it dare not name,
For this is the sad world’s way.
Oh! poor blind world grown grey
With the need of a thing so near,
With the want of a thing so dear.
   The need of the world I know.

Skilled mariner, and counted sane and wise,
   That was a curious thing which chanced to me,
      So good a sailor on so fair a sea.
With favouring winds and blue unshadowed skies,
Led by the faithful beacon of Love’s eyes,
   Past reef and shoal, my life-boat bounded free
   And fearless of all changes that might be
Under calm waves, where many a sunk rock lies.

A golden dawn; yet suddenly my barque
   Strained at the sails, as in a cyclone’s blast;
      And battled with an unseen current’s force,
For we had entered when the night was dark
   That old tempestuous Gulf Stream of the Past.
      But for love’s eyes, I had not kept the course.

His art was loving; Eres set his sign
   Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew
      The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew.
Love feeds love’s thirst as wine feeds love of wine;
Nor is there any potion from the vine
   Which makes men drunken like the subtle brew
   Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew
Inebriated with that draught divine.

Yet in his sober moments, when the sun
   Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall,
      And passion’s sea had grown an ebbing tide,
From out the many, Memory singled one
   Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all—
      The warm red mouth that mocked him and denied.

ON THE ISLE OF CRANAE

The world an abject vassal to her charms,
And kings competing for a single smile,
Yet love she knew not, till upon this isle
She gave surrender to abducting arms.
Not Theseus, who plucked her lips’ first kiss,
   Not Menelaus, lawful mate and spouse,
   Such answering passion in her heart could rouse,
Or wake such tumult in her soul as this.
Let come what will, let Greece and Asia meet,
   Let heroes die and kingdoms run with gore;
   Let devastation spread from shore to shore—
Resplendent Helen finds her bondage sweet.
The whole world fights her battles, while she lies
Sunned in the fervour of young Paris’ eyes.

The battles ended, ardent Paris dead,
   Of faithful Menelaus long bereft,
   Time is the only suitor who is left:
Helen survives, with youth and beauty fled.
By hate remembered, but by love forgot,
   Dethroned and driven from her high estate,
   Unhappy Helen feels the lash of Fate
And knows at last an unloved woman’s lot.
The Grecian marvel, and the Trojan joy,
   The world’s fair wonder, from her palace flies
   The furies follow, and great Helen dies,
A death of horror, for the pride of Troy.

* * * * *

Yet Time, like Menelaus, all forgives.
Helen, immortal in her beauty, lives.

Lais when young, and all her charms in flower,
   Lais, whose beauty was the fateful light
      That led great ships to anchor in the night
And bring their priceless cargoes to her bower,
Lais yet found her cup of sweet turned sour.
   Great Plato’s pupil, from his lofty height,
   Zenocrates, unmoved, had seen the white
Sweet wonder of her, and defied her power.

She snared the world in nets of subtle wiles:
   The proud, the famed, all clamoured at her gate;
      Dictators plead, inside her portico;
Wisdom sought madness, in her favouring smiles;
   Now was she made the laughing-stock of fate:
      One loosed her clinging arms, and bade her go.

Lais, when old and all her beauty gone,
Lais, the erstwhile courted pleasure queen,
Walked homeless through Corinth.
   One mocked her mien—
One tossed her coins; she took them and passed on.
Down by the harbour sloped a terraced lawn,
   Where fountains played; she paused to view the scene.
   A marble palace stood in bowers of green
’Twas here of old she revelled till the dawn.

Through yonder portico her lovers came—
   Hero and statesman, athlete, merchant, sage;
      They flung the whole world’s treasures at her feet
To buy her favour and exalt her shame.

* * * * *

She spat upon her dole of coins in rage
   And faded like a phantom down the street.

You are here, and you are wanted,
   Though a waif upon life’s stair;
Though the sunlit hours are haunted
   With the shadowy shapes of care.
Still the Great One, the All-Seeing
Called your spirit into being—
Gave you strength for any fate.
Since your life by Him was needed,
All your ways by Him are heeded—
   You can trust and you can wait.

You can wait to know the meaning
   Of the troubles sent your soul;
Of the chasms intervening
   ’Twixt your purpose and your goal;
Of the sorrows and the trials,
Of the silence and denials,
   Ofttimes answering to your pleas;
Of the stinted sweets of pleasure,
And of pain’s too generous measure—
   You can wait the why of these.

You are part of the Beginning,
   You are parcel of To-day.
When He set His world to spinning
   You were flung upon your way.
When the system falls to pieces,
When this pulsing epoch ceases,
   When the is becomes the was,
You will live, for you will enter
In the great Creative Centre,
   In the All-Enduring Cause.

I

Sailing away on a summer sea,
   Out of the bleak March weather;
Drifting away for a loaf and play,
   Just you and I together;
And it’s good-bye worry and good-bye hurry
And never a care have we;
With the sea below and the sun above
And nothing to do but dream and love,
   Sailing away together.

II

Afloat on a sea of passion
   Without a compass or chart,
But the glow of your eye shows the sun is high,
   By the sextant of my heart.
I know we are nearing the tropics
   By the languor that round us lies,
And the smile on your mouth says the course is south
   And the port is Paradise.

We have left grey skies behind us,
   We sail under skies of blue;
You are off with me on lovers’ sea,
   And I am away with you.
We have not a single sorrow,
   And I have but one fear—
That my lips may miss one offered kiss
   From the mouth that is smiling near.

I

I wrenched from a passing comet in its flight,
   By that great force of two mad hearts aflame,
   A soul incarnate, back to earth you came,
To glow like star-dust for a little night.
Deep shadows hide you wholly from our sight;
   The centuries leave nothing but your name,
   Tinged with the lustre of a splendid shame,
That blazed oblivion with rebellious light.

The mighty passion that became your cause,
   Still burns its lengthening path across the years;
   We feel its raptures, and we see its tears
And ponder on its retributive laws.
   Time keeps that deathless story ever new;
   Yet finds no answer, when we ask of you.

At Argenteuil, I saw the lonely cell
   Where Heloise dreamed through her broken rest,
   That baby lips pulled at her undried breast.
It needed but my woman’s heart to tell
Of those long vigils and the tears that fell
   When aching arms reached out in fruitless quest,
   As after flight, wings brood an empty nest.
(So well I know that sorrow, ah, so well.)

Across the centuries there comes no sound
   Of that vast anguish; not one sigh or word
   Or echo of the mother loss has stirred,
The sea of silence, lasting and profound.
   Yet to each heart, that once has felt this grief,
   Sad Memory restores Time’s missing leaf.

III

Conceived in nature’s bold primordial way
   (As in their revolutions, suns create),
   You came to earth, a soul immaculate,
Baptized in fire, with some great part to play.
   What was that part, and wherefore hid from us,
   Immortal mystery, Astrolabius!

When I shall meet God’s generous dispensers
   Of all the riches in the heavenly store,
Those lesser gods, who act as Recompensers
   For loneliness and loss upon this shore,
Methinks abashed, and somewhat hesitating,
   My soul its wish and longing will declare.
Lest they reply: ‘Here are no bounties waiting:
   We gave on earth, your portion and your share.’

Then shall I answer: ‘Yea, I do remember
   The many blessings to my life allowed;
My June was always longer than December,
   My sun was always stronger than my cloud,
My joy was ever deeper than my sorrow,
   My gain was ever greater than my loss,
My yesterday seemed less than my to-morrow,
   The crown looked always larger than the cross.

‘I knew the hope of motherhood; a season
   I felt a fluttering heart beat ’neath my own;
A little cry—then silence.  For that reason
   I dare, to you, my only wish make known.
The babe who grew to angelhood in heaven,
   I never watched unfold from child to man.
And so I ask, that unto me be given
   That motherhood, which was God’s primal plan.

‘All womankind He meant to share its glories;
   He meant us all to nurse our babes to rest.
To croon them songs, to tell them sleepy stories,
   Else why the wonder of a woman’s breast?
He must provide for all earth’s cheated mothers
   In His vast heavens of shining sphere on sphere,
And with my son, there must be many others—
   My spirit children who will claim me here.

As the grey twilight, tiptoed down the deep
   And shadowy valley, to the day’s dark end,
   She whom I thought my ever-faithful friend,
Fair-browed, calm-eyed and mother-bosomed Sleep,
Met me with smiles.  ‘Poor longing heart, I keep
   Sweet joy for you,’ she murmured.  ‘I will send
   One whom you love, with your own soul to blend
In visions, as the night hours onward creep.’

I trusted her; and watched by starry beams,
   I slumbered soundly, free from all alarms.
      Then not my love, but one long banished came,
Led by false Sleep, down secret stairs of dreams
   And clasped me, unresisting in fond arms.
      Oh, treacherous sleep—to sell me to such shame!

[A room in a private house.  A maiden sitting before a fire meditating.]

Maiden

Now have I fully fixed upon my part.
Good-bye to dreams; for me a life of art!
Beloved art!  Oh, realm serene and fair,
Above the mean and sordid world of care,
Above earth’s small ambitions and desires!
Art! art! the very word my soul inspires!
From foolish memories it sets me free.
Not what has been, but that which is to be
Absorbs me now.  Adieu to vain regret!
The bow is tensely drawn—the target set.

[A knock at the door.]

Maid (aside)

The night is dark and chill; the hour is late.

Who knocks upon my door?

A Voice Outside

’Tis I, your fate!

Maid

Thou dost deceive, not me, but thine own self.
My fate is not a wandering, vagrant elf.
My fate is here, within this throbbing heart
That beats alone for glory, and for art.

Voice

[Another knock at door.]

Pray, let me in; I am so faint and cold.

[Door is pushed ajar.  Enter Cupid, who approaches the fire with outstretched hands.]

Maid (indignantly)

Methinks thou art not faint, however cold,
But rather too courageous, and most bold;
Surprisingly ill-mannered, sir, and rude,
Without an invitation to intrude
Into my very presence.

   But, you see,
Girls never mind a little chap like me.
They’re always watching for me on the sly,
And hoping I will call.

Maid (haughtily)

   Indeed, not I!
My heart has listened to a sweeter voice,
A clarion call that gives command—not choice.
And I have answered to that call, ‘I come’;
To other voices shall my ears be dumb.
To art alone I consecrate my life—
Art is my spouse, and I his willing wife.

Cupid (slowly, gazing in the grate)

Art is a sultan, and you must divide
His love with many another ill-fed bride.
Now I know one who worships you alone.

Maid (impatiently)

I will not listen! for the dice is thrown
And art has won me.  On my brow some day
Shall rest the laurel wreath—

   Just let me say
I think sweet orange blossoms under lace
Are better suited to your type of face.

Maid (ignoring interruption)

I yet shall stand before an audience
That listens as one mind, absorbed, intense,
And with my genius I shall rouse its cheers,
Still it to silence, soften it to tears,
Or wake its laughter.  Oh, the play! the play!
The play’s the thing!  My boy, the play!!

Cupid (suddenly clapping his hands)

   Oh, say!
I know a splendid role for you to take,
And one that always keeps the house awake—
And calls for pretty dressing.  Oh, it’s great!

Maid (excitedly)

Well, well, what is it?  Wherefore make me wait?

Cupid (tapping his brow, thoughtfully)

Maid (angrily)

Be still, you foolish boy; that is not art.

Cupid (seriously)

She needs great skill who takes the role of wife
In God’s stupendous drama human life.

Maid (suddenly becoming serious)

So I once thought!  Oh, once my very soul
Was filled and thrilled with dreaming of that role.
Life seemed so wonderful; it held for me
No purpose, no ambition, but to be
Loving and loved.  My highest thought of fame
Was some day bearing my dear lover’s name.
Alone, I ofttimes uttered it aloud,
Or wrote it down, half timid, and all proud
To see myself lost utterly in him:
As some small star might joy in growing dim
When sinking in the sun; or as the dew,
Forgetting the brief little life it knew
In space, might on the ocean’s bosom fall
And ask for nothing—only to give all.

Now, that’s the talk—it’s music to my ear
After that stuff on ‘art’ and a ‘career.’
I hope she’ll keep it up.

Maiden (continuing her reverie)

   Again my dream
Shaped into changing pictures.  I would seem
To see myself in beautiful array
Move down the aisle upon my wedding day;
And then I saw the modest living-room
With lighted lamp, and fragrant plants in bloom,
And books and sewing scattered all about,
And just we two alone.

Cupid (in glee aside)

   There’s not a doubt
I’ll land her yet!

Maiden

   My dream kaleidoscope
Changed still again, and framed love’s dearest hope—
The trinity of home; and life was good
And all its deepest meaning understood.

Another scene! a matron in her prime,
I saw myself glide peacefully with time
Into the quiet middle years, content
With simple joys the dear home circle lent.
My sons and daughters made my diadem;
I saw my happy youth renewed in them.
The pain of growing old lost all its sting,
For Love stood near—in Winter, as in Spring.

[Cupid tiptoes to door and makes a signal.  Maiden starts up dramatically.]

Cupid

         It is but begun.

Maiden

The heart but once can dream a dream so fair,
And so henceforth love thoughts I do forswear;
Since faith in love has crumbled to the dust,
In fame alone, I put my hope and trust.

[Cupid at the door beckons excitedly.  Enter lover with outstretched arms.]

Cupid

Here’s one who will explain yourself to you
And make that old sweet dream of love come true.
Fix up your foolish quarrel; time is brief—
So waste no more of it in doubt or grief.

[The lovers meet and embrace.]

Cupid (in doorway)

Warm lip to lip, and heart to beating heart,
The cast is made—My Lady has her part.

CURTAIN

Ahasueras

Is this the way to greet thy loving spouse,
But now returned from scenes of blood and strife?
I pray thee raise thy veil and let me gaze
Upon that beauty which hath greater power
To conquer me than all the arts of war!

Vashti

My beauty!  Ay, my beauty!  I do hold,
In thy regard, no more an honoured place
Than yonder marble pillar, or the gold
And jewelled wine-cup which thy lips caress.
Thou wouldst degrade me in the people’s sight!

Ahasueras

Vashti

Ay! only one such queen!  A queen is one
Who shares her husband’s greatness and his throne.
I am no more than yonder dancing girl
Who struts and smirks before a royal court!
But I will loose my veil and loose my tongue!
Now listen, sire—my master and my king;
And let thy princes and the court give ear!
’Tis time all heard how Vashti feels her shame.

Ahasueras

Shame is no word to couple with thy name!
Shame and a spotless woman may not meet,
Even in a sentence.  Choose another word.

Vashti

Ahasueras

      Queen Vashti, art thou mad?
I would behead another did he dare
To so besmirch thee with comparison.

Vashti (to the court)

Ahasueras

Ay, Vashti, go and never more return!
Not only hast thou wronged thine own true lord,
And mocked and shamed me in the people’s eyes,
But thou hast wronged all princes and all men
By thy pernicious and rebellious ways.
Queens act and subjects imitate.  So let
Queen Vashti weigh her conduct and her words,
Or be no more called ‘queen!’

Vashti

I was a princess ere I was a queen,
And worthy of a better fate than this!
There lies the crown that made me queen in name!
Here stands the woman—wife in name alone!
Now, no more queen—nor wife—but woman still—
Ay, and a woman strong enough to be
Her own avenger.

Ahasueras

Tell me thy name!

Esther

My name, great sire, is Esther.

Ahasueras

So thou art Esther?  Esther! ’tis a name
Breathed into sound as softly as a sigh.
A woman’s name should melt upon the lips
Like Love’s first kisses, and thy countenance
Is fit companion for so sweet a name!

Esther

Thou art most kind.  I would my name and face
Were mine own making and not accident.
Then I might feel elated at thy praise,
Where now I feel confusion.

      Thou hast wit
As well as beauty, Esther.  Both are gems
That do embellish woman in man’s sight.
Yet they are gems of second magnitude!
Dost thou possess the one great perfect gem—
The matchless jewel of the world called love?

Esther

Sire, in the heart of every woman dwells
That wondrous perfect gem!

Ahasueras

      Then, Esther, speak!
And tell me what is love!  I fain would know
Thy definition of that much-mouthed word,
By woman most employed—least understood.

Esther

What can a humble Jewish maiden know
That would instruct a warrior and a king?
I have but dreamed of love as maidens will
While thou hast known its fulness.  All the world
Loves Great Ahasueras!

      All the world
Fears great Ahasueras!  Kings, my child,
Are rarely loved as anything but kings.
Love, as I see it in the court and camp,
Means seeking royal favour.  I would know
How love is fashioned in a maiden’s dreams.

Esther

Sire, love seeks nothing that kings can bestow.
Love is the king of all kings here below;
Love makes the monarch but a bashful boy,
Love makes the peasant monarch in his joy;
Love seeks not place, all places are the same,
When lighted by the radiance of love’s flame.
Who deems proud love could fawn to power and splendour
Hath known not love, but some base-born pretender.

Ahasueras

If this be love, I would know more of it.
Speak on, fair Esther!  What is love beside?

Esther

Ahasueras

But tell me of thyself, of thine own dreams!
How wouldst thou love, and how be loved again?

Esther

Who most doth love thinks least of love’s return;
She is content to feel the passion burn
In her own bosom, and its sacred fire
Consumes each selfish purpose and desire.
’Tis in the giving, love’s best rapture lies,
Not in the counting of the things it buys.

Ahasueras

Yet, is there not vast anguish and despair
In love that finds no answering word or smile?

Esther

Ahasueras

Methinks, a mighty warrior, lord or king
Must in thy fancy play the lover’s part;
None else could wake such reverential thought.

Esther

When woman loves one born of lowly state,
Her thought gives crown and sceptre to her mate;
Yet be he king, or chief of some great clan,
She loves him but as woman loves a man.
Monarch or peasant, ’tis the same, I wis
When once she gives him love’s surrendering kiss.