ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

I was a little lad, and the older boys called to me from the pier:
They called to me: ‘Be a sport: be a sport!  Leap in and swim!’
I leaped in and swam, though I had never been taught a stroke.
Then I was made a hero, and they all shouted:
   ‘Well done!  Well done,
Brave boy, you are a sport, a good sport!’
And I was very glad.

But now I wish I had learned to swim the right way,
   Or had never learned at all.
Now I regret that day,
   For it led to my fall.

But now I wish I had lost all I ventured on that day—
   Yes, wish I had lost it all.
For it was the wrong way,
   And pushed me to my fall.

Mother, sit down, for I have much to say
Anent this widespread ever-growing theme
Of woman and her virtues and her rights.

I left you for the large, loud world of men,
When I had lived one little score of years.
I judged all women by you, and my heart
Was filled with high esteem and reverence
For your angelic sex; and for the wives,
The sisters, daughters, mothers of my friends
I held but holy thoughts.  To fallen stars
(Of whom you told me in our last sweet talk,
Warning me of the dangers in my path)
I gave wide pity as you bade me to,
Saying their sins harked back to my base sex.

He sat beside a good man’s honoured wife
At her own table.  She was beautiful
As woods in early autumn.  Full of soft
And subtle witcheries of voice and look—
His senior, both in knowledge and in years.

The youth, forced into sudden manhood, went
Seeking the lost ideal of his dreams.
He met, in churches and in drawing-rooms,
Women who wore the mask of innocence
And basked in public favour, yet who seemed
To find their pleasure playing with men’s hearts,
As children play with loaded guns.  He heard
(Until the tale fell dull upon his ears)
The unsolicited complaints of wives
And mothers all unsatisfied with life,
While crowned with every blessing earth can give
Longing for God knows what to bring content,
And openly or with appealing look
Asking for sympathy.  (The first blind step
That leads from wifely honour down to shame,
Is ofttimes hid with flowers of sympathy.)

Mother, you taught me there were but two kinds
Of women in the world—the good and bad.
But you have been too sheltered in the safe,
Old-fashioned sweetness of your quiet life,
To know how women of these modern days
Make licence of their new-found liberty.
Why, I have been more tempted and more shocked
By belles and beauties in the social whirl,
By trusted wives and mothers in their homes,
Than by the women of the underworld
Who sell their favours.  Do you think me mad?
No, mother; I am sane, but very sad.

I miss my boyhood’s faith in woman’s worth—
Torn from my heart, by ‘good folks’ of the earth.

The modern English-speaking young girl is the astonishment of the world and the despair of the older generation.  Nothing like her has ever been seen or heard before.  Alike in drawing-rooms and the amusement places of the people, she defies conventions in dress, speech, and conduct.  She is bold, yet not immoral.  She is immodest, yet she is chaste.  She has no ideals, yet she is kind and generous.  She is an anomaly and a paradox.

We are the little daughters of Time and the World his wife,
We are not like the children, born in their younger life,
We are marred with our mother’s follies and torn with our father’s strife.

We are the little daughters of the modern world,
And Time, her spouse.
She has brought many children to our father’s house
Before we came, when both our parents were content

But Father Time grew restless and longed for a swifter pace,
And our mother pushed out beside him at the cost of her tender grace,
And life was no more living but just a headlong race.

And we are wild—
Yea, wild are we, the younger born of the World
   Into life’s vortex hurled.
With the milk of our mother’s breast
We drank her own unrest,
   And we learned our speech from Time
   Who scoffs at the things sublime.
Time and the World have hurried so
They could not help their younger born to grow;
We only follow, follow where they go.

We are the demi-virgins of the modern day;
   All evil on the earth is known to us in thought,
   But yet we do it not.
   We bare our beauteous bodies to the gaze of men,
   We lure them, tempt them, lead them on, and then
Lightly we turn away.
By strong compelling passion we are never stirred;
To us it is a word—
A word much used when tragic tales are told;
We are the younger born, yet we are very old
In understanding, and our knowledge makes us bold.
Boldly we look at life,
Loving its stress and strife,
And hating all conventions that may mean restraint,
Yet shunning sin’s black taint.

We ofttimes pause to do some generous little deed,
And fill the cup of need;
For we are kind at heart,
   Though with less heart than head,
   Unmoral, not immoral, when the worst is said;
We are the product of the modern day.

There are so many little things that make life beautiful.
I can recall a day in early youth when I was longing for happiness.
Toward the western hills I gazed, watching for its approach.
The hills lay between me and the setting sun, and over them led a highway.
When some traveller crossed the hill, always a fine grey dust rose cloudless against the sky.
The traveller I could not distinguish, but the dust-cloud I could see.

There are so many little things that make life beautiful.
I can recall another day when I rebelled at life’s monotony.
Everywhere about me was the commonplace; and nothing seemed to happen.
Each day was like its yesterday, and to-morrow gave no promise of change.
My young heart rose rebellious in my breast; and I ran aimlessly into the sunlight—the glowing sunlight of June.
I sent out a dumb cry to Fate, demanding larger joys and more delight.
I ran blindly into a field of blooming clover.
It was breast-high, and billowed about me like rose-red waves of a fragrant sea.

There are so many little things that make life beautiful.
Yesterday a failure stared me in the face, where I had thought to welcome proud success.
There was no radiant cloud of dust against the western sky, and no clover field lying fragrant under mid-June suns,
Neither was youth with me any more.

And that I knew was happiness.

There are so many little things to make life beautiful.

Seeking for happiness we must go slowly;
   The road leads not down avenues of haste;
But often gently winds through by ways lowly,
   Whose hidden pleasures are serene and chaste
Seeking for happiness we must take heed
Of simple joys that are not found in speed.

Eager for noon-time’s large effulgent splendour,
   Too oft we miss the beauty of the dawn,
Which tiptoes by us, evanescent, tender,
   Its pure delights unrecognised till gone.
Seeking for happiness we needs must care
For all the little things that make life fair.

In simple pathways hand in hand with duty
   (With faith and love, too, ever at her side),
May happiness be met in all her beauty
   The while we search for her both far and wide.
Seeking for happiness we find the way
Doing the things we ought to do each day.

Said Willie to Tom, ‘Let us hie away
To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.

It lies off the border of “No School Land,”
And abounds with pleasure, I understand.

There boys go swimming whenever they please
In a lovely river right under the trees.

And marbles are free, so you need not buy;
And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.

We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight—
We sail and we sail for a day and a night.

And then, if favoured by billows and breeze,
We land in the Harbour of Do-as-You-Please.

Books are not known in that land so fair,
Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.

Hurrah for the Island, so glad and free,
That is the country for you and me.’

He let out the sails and away went the three
Over the waters of Ignorant Sea,
Out and away to Stupid Land;
And they live there yet, I understand.
And there’s where every one goes, they say,
Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.

There are curious isles in the River of Sleep,
   Curious isles without number.
We’ll visit them all as we leisurely creep
Down the winding stream whose current is deep,
   In our beautiful barge of Slumber.

The very first isle in this wonderful stream
   Quite close to the shore is lying,
And after a supper of cakes and cream
We come to the Night-Mare-Isle with a scream,
   And hurry away from it crying.

And next is the Island-of-Lullaby,
   And every one there rejoices.
The winds are only a perfumed sigh,
And the birds that sing in the treetops try
   To imitate Mothers’ voices.

And then we come to the drollest isle,
   And the funniest sounds come pouring
Down from its borderlands once in a while,
And we lean o’er our barge and listen and smile;
   For that is the Isle-of-Snoring.

And the very last isle in the River of Sleep
   Is the sunshiny Isle-of-Waking.
We see it first with our eyes a-peep,
And we give a yawn—then away we leap,
   The barge of Slumber forsaking.

Now, dear, it isn’t the bold things,
Great deeds of valour and might,
That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day.
But it is the doing of old things,
Small acts that are just and right;
And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say;
In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when you want to play—
Dear, those are the things that count.

My dear, it isn’t the loud part
Of creeds that are pleasing to God,
Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or song.
But it is the beautiful proud part
Of walking with feet faith-shod;
And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go wrong;
In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when the way seems long—
Dear, these are the things that count.

When the motive is right and the will is strong
   There are no limits to human power;
   For that great Force back of us moves along
And takes us with it, in trial’s hour.

And whatever the height you yearn to climb,
   Though it never was trod by the foot of man,
   And no matter how steep—I say you can,
If you will be patient—and use your time.

Sad man, Sad man, tell me, pray,
What did you see to-day?

Glad man, Glad man, tell me, pray.
What did you see to-day?

I saw an agèd couple, in whose eyes
   Shone that deep light of mingled love and faith,
Which makes the earth one room of paradise,
   And leaves no sting in death.

I saw vast regiments of children pour,
Rank after rank, out of the schoolroom door
By Progress mobilised.  They seemed to say:
‘Let ignorance make way.
We are the heralds of a better day.’

I saw great Science reverently stand
And listen for a sound from Border-land,
   No longer arrogant with unbelief—
   Holding itself aloof—
But drawing near, and searching high and low
   For that complete and all-convincing proof
   Which shall permit its voice to comfort grief,
Saying, ‘We know.’

I saw fair women in their radiance rise
   And trample old traditions in the dust.
Looking in their clear eyes,
I seemed to hear these words as from the skies:
   ‘He who would father our sweet children must
   Be worthy of the trust.’

Against the rosy dawn, I saw unfurled
   The banner of the race we usher in,
The supermen and women of the world,
   Who make no code of sex to cover sin;
Before they till the soil of parenthood,
They look to it that seed and soil are good.

From the Queen Bee mother, the mother Beast, and the mother Fowl in the fen,
A call went up to the human world, to Woman, the mother of men.
The call said, ‘Come: for we, the dumb, are given speech for a day,
And the things we have thought for a thousand years we are going at last to say.’

Much they marvelled, these women of earth, at the strange and curious call,
And some of them laughed, and some of them sneered, but they answered it one and all,
For they wanted to hear what never before was heard since the world began—
The spoken word of Beast and Bird, and the message it held for Man.

‘Now this is the message we give to you’ (it was thus the she-bear spake):
‘You the creatures of homes and shrines, and we of the wold and brake,
We have no churches, we have no schools, and our minds you question and doubt,
But we follow the laws which some Great Cause, alike for us all, laid out.

‘We eat and we drink to live; we shun the things that poison and kill,
And we settle the problems of sex and birth by the law of the female will,
For never was one of us known by a male, or made to mother its kind,
Unless there went from our minds consent (or from what we call the mind).

‘All unwanted your offspring come, or you slay them before they are born;
And now the wild she-things of the earth have spoken and told their scorn.
We have no mind and we have no souls, maybe as you think—And still,
Never one of us ate or drank the things that poison and kill,
And never was one of us known by a male except by our wish and will.’

All that a man can say of woman’s charms,
   Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told
To you a thousand times.  Your perfect arms
   (A replica from that lost Melos mould),
The fair firm crescents of your bosom (shown
With full intent to make their splendours known),

Your eyes (that mask with innocence their smile),
   The (artful) artlessness of all your ways,
Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its guile—
   All these have had my fond and frequent praise.
And something more than praise to you I gave—
Something which made you know me as your slave.

Those flowery praises led you to suppose
   You were my benefactor.  Well, in truth,
When lovely woman on dull man bestows
   Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth,
He is her debtor.  I am yours: and yet
You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt.

I owe you for keen moments when you stirred
   My senses with your beauty, when your eyes
(Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word
   Your curled lips uttered.  You are worldly wise,
And while you like to set men’s hearts on flame,
You take no risks in that old passion-game.

The carnal, common self of dual me
   Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.
(An egotist, man always thinks to be
   The victor, if his patience but endures,
And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire,
Until the silly woman’s heart takes fire.)

Woman, how can I hope for happy life
   In days to come at my own nuptial hearth,
When you who bear the honoured name of wife
   So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth?
Descending from your pedestal, alas!
You shake the pedestals of all your class.

A vain, flirtatious wife is like a thief
   Who breaks into the temple of men’s souls,
And steals the golden vessels of belief,
   The swinging censers, and the incense bowls.
All women seem less loyal and less true,
Less worthy of men’s faith since I met you.

What will the superwoman be, of whom we sing—
   She who is coming over the dim border
   Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder
Is tidied up by Time?  What will she bring
   To make life better on tempestuous earth?
   How will her worth
Be greater than her forbears?  What new power
Within her being will burst into flower?

She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
   Of adolescence which departs with youth—
   But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
Of its eternal message and the source
Of all its potent force.
   Her outer being by the inner thought
   Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.

She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
   Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,
   Drawn from the Cosmic Mind—
Wisdom to act, strength to attain,
And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.

She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
   And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
   Not at the call of sense or for man’s pleasure
Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
   To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
   Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.

To motherhood she will bring common sense—
   That most uncommon virtue.  She will give
Love that is more than she-wolf violence
   (Which slaughters others that its own may live).

She will be formed to guide, but not to lead—
   Leaders are ever lonely—and her sphere
Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
   Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,
And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or ‘Wait.’

And best of all, she will bring holy faith
To penetrate the shadowy world of death,
   And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,
   That leads straight up to God.

There was a time when I was confident
That God’s stupendous mystery of birth
Was mine to know.  The wonder of it lent
New ecstasy and glory to the earth.
I heard no voice that uttered it aloud,
Nor was it written for me on a scroll;
Yet, if alone or in the common crowd,
I felt myself a consecrated soul.
My child leaped in its dark and silent room
And cried, ‘I am,’ though all unheard by men.
So leaps my spirit in the body’s gloom
And cries, ‘I live!  I shall be born again.’
Elate with certitude towards death I go,
Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!

He was a failure, and one day he died.
   Across the border of the mapless land
He found himself among a sad-eyed band
Of disappointed souls; they, too, had tried
And missed their purpose.  With one voice they cried
   Unto the shining Angel in command:
   ‘Oh, lead us not before our Lord to stand,
For we are failures, failures!  Let us hide.’

Yet on the Angel fared, until they stood
   Before the Master.  (Even His holy place
The hideous noises of the earth assailed.)
Christ reached His arms out to the trembling brood,
   With God’s vast sorrow in His listening face.
Come unto Me,’ He said; ‘I, too, have failed.’

Dreaming of love, the ardent mind of youth
   Conceives it one with passion’s brief delights,
With keen desire and rapture.  But, in truth,
   These are but milestones to sublime heights
After the highways, swept by strong emotions,
   Where wild winds blow and blazing sun rays beat,
After the billows of tempestuous oceans,
   Fair mountain summits wait the lover’s feet.

The path is narrow, but the view is wide,
   And beauteous the outlook towards the west
Happy are they who walk there side by side,
   Leaving below the valleys of unrest,
And on the radiant altitudes above
Know the serene intensity of love.

Three Souls there were that reached the Heavenly Gate,
And gained permission of the Guard to wait.
Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin,
They did not ask or hope to enter in.
‘We loved one woman (thus their story ran);
We lost her, for she chose another man.
So great our love, it brought us to this door;
We only ask to see her face once more.
Then will we go to realms where we belong,
And pay our penalty for doing wrong.’

They waited year on year.  Then, like a flame,
News of the woman’s death from earth-land came.
The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes
Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise.
The well-beloved face in vain they sought,
Until one day the Guardian Angel brought
A message to them.  ‘She has gone,’ he said,
‘Down to the lower regions of the dead;
Her chosen mate went first; so great her love
She has resigned the joys that wait above
To dwell with him, until perchance some day,
Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.’

Then clothed like Angels, fitting their estate,
Three Souls went singing, singing through God’s Gate.

When love is lost, the day sets towards the night,
Albeit the morning sun may still be bright,
And not one cloud-ship sails across the sky.
Yet from the places where it used to lie
Gone is the lustrous glory of the light.

No splendour rests in any mountain height,
No scene spreads fair and beauteous to the sight;
All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye
   When love is lost.

Love lends to life its grandeur and its might;
Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight;
Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by,
And grief’s one happy thought is that we die.
Ah, what can recompense us for its flight
   When love is lost?

There must in heaven be many industries
And occupations, varied, infinite;
Or heaven could not be heaven.
What gracious tasks
The Mighty Maker of the universe
Can offer souls that have prepared on earth
By holding lovely thoughts and fair desires!

Art thou a poet to whom words come not?
A dumb composer of unuttered sounds,
Ignored by fame and to the world unknown?
Thine may be, then, the mission to create
Immortal lyrics and immortal strains,
For stars to chant together as they swing
About the holy centre where God dwells.

Surely God has provided work to do
For souls like these, and for the weary, rest.

In the journey of life, as we travel along
To the mystical goal that is hidden from sight,
You may stumble at times into Roadways of Wrong,
Not seeing the sign-board that points to the right.
Through caverns of sorrow your feet may be led,
Where the noon of the day will like midnight appear.
But no matter whither you wander or tread,
Keep out of the Valley of Fear.

The Roadways of Wrong will wind out into light
If you sit in the silence and ask for a Guide;
In the caverns of sorrow your soul gains its sight
Of beautiful vistas, ascending and wide.
In by-paths of worry and trouble and strife
Full many a bloom grows bedewed by a tear,
But wretched and arid and void of all life
Is the desolate Valley of Fear.

This beautiful Roadway is narrow and steep,
And it runs up the side of the Mountain of Faith.
You may not perceive it at first if you weep,
But it rises high over the River of Death.
Though the Roadway is narrow and dark at the base,
It widens ascending, and ever grows clear,
Till it shines at the top with the Light of God’s face,
Far, far from the Valley of Fear.

When close to that Valley your footsteps shall fare,
Turn, turn to the Roadway of Prayer—
The beautiful Roadway of Prayer.

Now what were the words of Jesus,
And what would He pause and say,
If we were to meet in home or street,
The Lord of the world to-day?
Oh, I think He would pause and say:
‘Go on with your chosen labour;
Speak only good of your neighbour;
Widen your farms, and lay down your arms,
Or dig up the soil with each sabre.’

Now what were the answer of Jesus
If we should ask for a creed,
To carry us straight to the wonderful gate
When soul from body is freed?
Oh, I think He would give us this creed:
‘Praise God whatever betide you;
Cast joy on the lives beside you;
Better the earth, by growing in worth,
With love as the law to guide you.’

I am the refuge of all the oppressed,
I am the boast of the free,
I am the harbour where ships may rest
Safely ’twixt sea and sea.
I hold up a torch to a darkened world,
I lighten the path with its ray.
Let my hand keep steady
And let me be ready
For whatever comes my way—
Let me be ready.

If Jesus were back on the earth with men,
He would not preach to-day
Until He had made Him a scourge, and again
He would drive the defilers away.
He would throw down the tables of lust and greed
And scatter the changers’ gold.
He would be ready,
His hand would be steady,
As it was in that temple of old—
He would be ready.

I am the cradle of God’s new world,
From me shall the new race rise,
And my glorious banner must float unfurled,
Unsullied against the skies.
My sons and daughters must be my strength,
With courage to do and to dare,
With hearts that are ready,
With hands that are steady,
And their slogan must be, Prepare!—
They must be ready!