Tag: Ella Wheeler Wilcox

  • Every Mother’s Duty

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 30, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    When God had formed the Universe He thought
    Of all the marvels therein to be wrought,
    And to his aid then Motherhood was brought.

    “My lesser self, the feminine of Me,
    She will go forth throughout all time,” quoth He,
    “And make my world what I would have it be,

    “For I am weary, having labored so,
    And for a cycle of repose would go
    Into that silence which but God may know.

    “Therefore I leave the rounding of my plan
    To Motherhood, and that which I began
    Let woman finish in perfecting man.

    “She is the soil, the human Mother Earth;
    She is the sun that calls the seed to earth;
    She is the gardener who knows its worth.

    “From Me all seed of any kind must spring.
    Divine the growth such seed and soil will bring.
    For all is Me, and I am everything.”

    Thus having spoken to Himself aloud,
    His glorious face upon His breast He bowed,
    And sought repose behind a wall of cloud.

    Come forth, O God! Though great Thy thought and good
    In shaping woman for true Motherhood,
    Lord, speak again; she has not understood.

    The centuries pass; the cycles roll along—
    The earth is peopled with a mighty throng;
    Yet men are fighting and the world goes wrong.

    Lord, speak again, ere yet it be too late—
    Unloved, unwanted souls come through earth’s gate;
    The unborn child is given a dower of hate.

    Thy world progresses in all ways save one.
    In Motherhood, for which it was begun,
    Lord, Lord, behold how little has been done.

    True Motherhood is not alone to breed
    The human race; it Is to know and heed
    Its holiest purpose and its highest need.

    Lord, speak again, so woman shall be inspired
    With the full meaning of that mighty word—
    True Motherhood. She has not rightly heard.

  • The Will to Climb

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 17, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    Once as I toiled along the world’s rough road,
    I longed to lift each fellow pilgrim’s load.
    I yearned to smooth all obstacles away
    And make the journey one glad holiday.
    Now that so much of life’s long path is trod,
    I better know the purposes of God.
    As I come nearer to the final goal,
    I grasp the meaning of the Over-Soul.
    This is the message as it comes to me:
    Do well the task thy Maker set for thee.
    Cheer the despairing—ease his load a bit,
    Or teach him how he best may carry it,
    But do not lift it wholly, lest at length
    Thy too great kindness rob him of his strength.
    He wrongs his brother who performs his part,
    Wake thou the sleeping Angel in each heart;
    Inspire the doubting soul to search and find,
    Then go thy way, nor wait for those behind.
    Who tries may follow, and the goal attain;
    Perpetual effort is the price of gain.
    The gods make room upon the heights sublime,
    Only for those who have the will to climb.

  • Whatever Is—Is Best

    From The Detroit Times, June 25, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    I know as my life grows older,
        And mine eyes have clearer sight—
    That under each rank wrong, somewhere
        There lies the root of right;
    That each sorrow has a purpose,
        By the sorrowing oft unguessed,
    But sure as the sun brings morning,
        Whatever is—is best.

    I know that each sinful action,
        As sure as the night brings shade
    Is somewhere, sometime punished
        Tho’ the hour be long delayed.
    I know that the soul is aided
        Sometimes by the heart’s unrest
    And to grow means often to suffer—
        But whatever is—is best.

    I know there are no errors
        In the great eternal plan,
    And all things work together
        For the final good of man.
    And I know as my soul speeds onward
        In its grand eternal quest,
    I shall say as I look back earthward,
        Whatever is—is best.

  • The Way of the World

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 30, 1915. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    Laugh, and the world laughs with you,
        Weep, and you weep alone.
    This odd old earth must borrow its mirth,
        It has trouble enough of its own.
    Sing, and the hills will answer.
        Sigh, and it is lost on the air.
    The echoes rebound to a joyful sound
        But they shrink from voicing care.

    Rejoice, and men will seek you,
        Grieve and they turn to go;
    They want full measure of your pleasure,
        But they do not want your woe.
    Be glad, and your friends are many,
        Be sad, and you lose them all.
    There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
        But alone you must drink life’s gall.

    Feast and your halls are crowded,
        Fast, and the world goes by—
    Forget and forgive, it will help you to live,
        But no man can help you to die.
    There is room in the halls of pleasure
        For a long and lordly train,
    But one by one we must all march on
        Thro’ the narrow aisle of pain.

  • Interlude

    From the Evening Star, December 20, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;
        The headstones thicken along the way;
    And life grows sadder, but loves grows stronger,
        For those who walk with us day by day.

    The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;
        The courage is lesser to do and dare;
    And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower
        And seldom covers the reefs of care.

    But all true things in the world seem truer,
        And the better things of earth seem best,
    And friends are dearer as friends are fewer,
        And love is all as our sun dips west.

    Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
        And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone;
    For no man knows on the morrow whether
        We two pass on—or but one alone.

  • The Two Glasses

    From the Newark Evening Star, September 9, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    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 glass of water, “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.

  • Mistakes

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 27, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    God sent us here to make mistakes—
        To strive, to fail, to begin;
        To taste the tempting fruit of sin
    And find what bitter food it makes.

    To miss the path, to go astray,
        To wander blindly in the night,
        But searching, praying for the light
    Until at last we find the way.

    And looking back upon the past,
        We know we needed all the strain
        Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
    To make us value peace at last.

    Who fails, finds later triumph sweet,
        Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
        And knows the place to cry “Beware!”
    To other unaccustomed feet.

    Through strife the slumbering soul awakes.
        We learn on error’s troubled route
        The truths we could not prize without
    The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

  • The Last Dance

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 10, 1913. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    My Dance, I Believe!

    The wave of the ocean, the leaf of the wood,
    In the rhythm of motion proclaim life is good.
    The stars are all swinging to meters and rhyme,
    The planets are singing while suns mark the time.
    The moonbeams and rivers float off in a trance,
    The Universe quivers—on, on with the dance!

    Our partners we pick from the best of the throng
    In the ballroom of Life and go lilting along;
    We follow our fancy, and choose as we will
    For waltz or for tango or merry quadrille;
    But ever one partner is waiting us all
    At the end of the program, to finish the ball.

    Unasked, and unwelcome, he comes without leave
    And calls when he chooses, “My dance, I believe?”
    And none may refuse him, and none may say no.
    When he beckons the dancer, the dancer must go.
    You may hate him, and shun him; and yet life’s a ball—
    For the one who lives well ’tis the best dance of all.

  • Two Voices

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 19, 1913. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    VIRTUE.
    Oh, wanton one, oh, wicked one, how was it that you came
    Down from the paths of purity to walk the streets of shame?
    And wherefore was that precious wealth God gave to you in trust,
    Flung broadcast for the feet of men to trample in the dust?

    VICE.
    Oh, prudent one, oh, spotless one, now listen well to me.
    The ways that lead to where I tread these paths of sin were three.
    And God, and good folks all combined to make them fair to see.

    VIRTUE.
    Oh, wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?

    VICE.
    The first was Nature’s lovely road, whereon my life was hurled.
    I felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world.
    I thrilled like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow,
    It was young passion in my veins, but how was I to know?

    The second was the silent road, where modest mothers dwell
    And hide from eager, curious minds the truth they ought to tell.
    That misnamed road, called “Innocence,” should bear the sign “To Hell.”
    With song and dance in ignorance I walked that road and fell.

    VIRTUE.
    Oh, fallen one, unhappy one, but why not rise and go
    Back to the ways you left behind, and leave your sins below,
    Nor linger in this vale of sin, since now you see, and know?

    VICE.
    The third road was the fair highway, trod by the good and great.
    I cried aloud to that vast crowd, and told my hapless fate.
    They hurried all through door and wall and shut Convention’s gate;
    I beat it with my bleeding hands; they must have heard me knock;
    They must have heard wild sob and word, yet no one turned the lock.

    Oh, it is very desolate on Virtue’s path to stand,
    And see the good folks flocking by, withholding look, and hand.

    And so with hungry heart and soul, and weary brain and feet,
    I left that highway whence you came, and sought the sinful street.
    Oh, prudent one, oh, spotless one, when good folks speak of me,
    Go tell them of the roads I came; the roadways fair, and three.

  • The Disappointed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 30, 1913.
     By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
     
    
     There are songs enough for the hero
         Who dwells on the heights of fame;
     I sing for the disappointed—
         For those who have missed their aim.
     
     I sing with a tearful cadence
         For one who stands in the dark,
     And knows that his last, best arrow
         Has bounded back from the mark.
     
     I sing for the breathless runner,
         The eager, anxious soul,
     Who falls with his strength exhausted
         Almost in sight of the goal.
     
     For the hearts that break in silence,
         With a sorrow all unknown,
     For those who need companions,
         Yet walk their ways alone.
     
     There are songs enough for the lovers
         Who share love’s tender pain;
     I sing for the one whose passion
         Is given all in vain.
     
     For those whose spirit comrades
         Have missed them on their way,
     I sing, with a heart o’erflowing,
         This minor strain today.
     
     And I know the Solar System
         Must somewhere keep in space
     A prize for that spent runner
         Who barely lost the race.
     
     For the plan would be imperfect
         Unless it held some sphere
     That paid for the toil and talent
         And love that are wasted here.