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Poems List
Queries
Queries
Well, how has it been with you since we met
That last strange time of a hundred times?
When we met to swear that we could forget—
I your caresses, and you my rhymes—
The rhyme of my lays that rang like a bell,
And the rhyme of my heart with yours, as well?
How has it been since we drank that last kiss,
That was bitter with lees of the wasted wine,
When the tattered remains of a threadbare bliss,
And the worn-out shreds of a joy divine,
With a year's best dreams and hopes, were cast
Into the rag-bag of the Past?
Since Time, the rag-buyer, hurried away,
With a chuckle of glee at a bargain made,
Did you discover, like me, one day,
That, hid in the folds of those garments frayed,
Were priceless jewels and diadems—
The soul's best treasures, the heart's best gems?
Have you, too, found that you could not supply
The place of those jewels so rare and chaste?
Do all that you borrow or beg or buy
Prove to be nothing but skilful paste?
Have you found pleasure, as I found art,
Not all-sufficient to fill your heart?
Do you sometimes sigh for the tattered shreds
Of the old delight that we cast away,
And find no worth in the silken threads
Of newer fabrics we wear to-day?
Have you thought the bitter of that last kiss
Better than sweets of a later bliss?
What idle queries!—or yes or no—
Whatever your answer, I understand
That there is no pathway by which we can go
Back to the dead past's wonderland;
And the gems he purchased from me, from you,
There is no rebuying from Time, the Jew
Well, how has it been with you since we met
That last strange time of a hundred times?
When we met to swear that we could forget—
I your caresses, and you my rhymes—
The rhyme of my lays that rang like a bell,
And the rhyme of my heart with yours, as well?
How has it been since we drank that last kiss,
That was bitter with lees of the wasted wine,
When the tattered remains of a threadbare bliss,
And the worn-out shreds of a joy divine,
With a year's best dreams and hopes, were cast
Into the rag-bag of the Past?
Since Time, the rag-buyer, hurried away,
With a chuckle of glee at a bargain made,
Did you discover, like me, one day,
That, hid in the folds of those garments frayed,
Were priceless jewels and diadems—
The soul's best treasures, the heart's best gems?
Have you, too, found that you could not supply
The place of those jewels so rare and chaste?
Do all that you borrow or beg or buy
Prove to be nothing but skilful paste?
Have you found pleasure, as I found art,
Not all-sufficient to fill your heart?
Do you sometimes sigh for the tattered shreds
Of the old delight that we cast away,
And find no worth in the silken threads
Of newer fabrics we wear to-day?
Have you thought the bitter of that last kiss
Better than sweets of a later bliss?
What idle queries!—or yes or no—
Whatever your answer, I understand
That there is no pathway by which we can go
Back to the dead past's wonderland;
And the gems he purchased from me, from you,
There is no rebuying from Time, the Jew
👁️ 299
Presumption
Presumption
Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder
I check myself, and say, 'That mighty One
Who made the solar system cannot blunder And
for the best all things are being done.'
Who set the stars on their eternal courses
Has fashioned this strange earth by come sure plan.
Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces,
Nor dare to doubt their wisdom - puny man.
You cannot put one little star in motion,
You cannot shape one single forest leaf,
Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean,
Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief.
You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendour
Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,
Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender,
And dare you doubt the One who has done all?
'So much is wrong, there is such pain - such sinning.'
Yet look again - behold how much is right!
And He who formed the world from its beginning
Knows how o guide it upward to the light.
Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil That
is the way to help the world along.
Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder
I check myself, and say, 'That mighty One
Who made the solar system cannot blunder And
for the best all things are being done.'
Who set the stars on their eternal courses
Has fashioned this strange earth by come sure plan.
Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces,
Nor dare to doubt their wisdom - puny man.
You cannot put one little star in motion,
You cannot shape one single forest leaf,
Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean,
Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief.
You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendour
Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,
Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender,
And dare you doubt the One who has done all?
'So much is wrong, there is such pain - such sinning.'
Yet look again - behold how much is right!
And He who formed the world from its beginning
Knows how o guide it upward to the light.
Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil That
is the way to help the world along.
👁️ 324
Preaching Vs Practice
Preaching Vs Practice
It is easy to sit in the sunshine
And talk to the man in the shade;
It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat,
And point out the places to wade.
But once we pass into the shadows,
We murmur and fret and frown,
And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank,
Or throw up our hands and go down.
It is easy to sit in your carriage,
And counsel the man on foot,
But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk,
As you feel the peg in your boot.
It is easy to tell the toiler
How best he can carry his pack,
But no one can rate a burden's weight
Until it has been on his back.
The up-curled mouth of pleasure,
Can prate of sorrow's worth,
But give it a sip, and a wryer lip,
Was never made on earth.
It is easy to sit in the sunshine
And talk to the man in the shade;
It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat,
And point out the places to wade.
But once we pass into the shadows,
We murmur and fret and frown,
And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank,
Or throw up our hands and go down.
It is easy to sit in your carriage,
And counsel the man on foot,
But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk,
As you feel the peg in your boot.
It is easy to tell the toiler
How best he can carry his pack,
But no one can rate a burden's weight
Until it has been on his back.
The up-curled mouth of pleasure,
Can prate of sorrow's worth,
But give it a sip, and a wryer lip,
Was never made on earth.
👁️ 321
Poverty And Wealth
Poverty And Wealth
The stork flew over a town one day,
And back of each wing an infant lay;
One to a rich man’s home he brought,
And one he left at a labourer’s cot.
The rich man said, ‘My son shall be
A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.’
The labourer sighed, ‘’Tis the good God’s will
That I have another mouth to fill.’
The rich man’s son grew strong and fair,
And proud with the pride of a millionaire.
His motto in life was, ‘Live while you may, ’
And he crowded years in a single day.
He bought position and name and place,
And he bought him a wife with a handsome face.
He journeyed over the whole wide world,
But discontent his heart lay curled
Like a serpent hidden in leaves and moss,
And life seemed hollow and gold was dross.
He scoffed at woman, and doubted God,
And died like a beast and went back to the sod.
The son of the labourer tilled the soil,
And thanked God daily for health and toil.
He wedded for love in his youthful prime,
And two lives chorded in tune and time.
His wants were simple, and simple his creed,
To trust God fully: it served his need,
And lightened his labour, and helped him to die
With a smile on his lips and a hope in his eye.
When all is over and all is done,
Now which of these men was the richer one?
The stork flew over a town one day,
And back of each wing an infant lay;
One to a rich man’s home he brought,
And one he left at a labourer’s cot.
The rich man said, ‘My son shall be
A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.’
The labourer sighed, ‘’Tis the good God’s will
That I have another mouth to fill.’
The rich man’s son grew strong and fair,
And proud with the pride of a millionaire.
His motto in life was, ‘Live while you may, ’
And he crowded years in a single day.
He bought position and name and place,
And he bought him a wife with a handsome face.
He journeyed over the whole wide world,
But discontent his heart lay curled
Like a serpent hidden in leaves and moss,
And life seemed hollow and gold was dross.
He scoffed at woman, and doubted God,
And died like a beast and went back to the sod.
The son of the labourer tilled the soil,
And thanked God daily for health and toil.
He wedded for love in his youthful prime,
And two lives chorded in tune and time.
His wants were simple, and simple his creed,
To trust God fully: it served his need,
And lightened his labour, and helped him to die
With a smile on his lips and a hope in his eye.
When all is over and all is done,
Now which of these men was the richer one?
👁️ 361
Platonic
Platonic
I knew it the first of the summer,
I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn’t you be my friend?
Couldn’t we sit in the twilight,
Couldn’t we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was not a word of folly
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects –
The moon and the worlds above, -
And our talk was tinctured with science,
And everything else, save love.
A wholly Platonic friendship
You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
Though both were in their youth,
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth!
What would you have done, I wonder,
Had I gone on my knees to you
And told you my passionate story,
There in the dusk and the dew?
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long –
My story of hopeless loving –
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered,
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning,
And I said a calm goodnight.
But now when I sit in the twilight,
Or when I walk by the sea
That friendship, quite Platonic,
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk, the dew;
For the beautiful summer vanished,
For the moonlight walks – and you.
I knew it the first of the summer,
I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn’t you be my friend?
Couldn’t we sit in the twilight,
Couldn’t we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was not a word of folly
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects –
The moon and the worlds above, -
And our talk was tinctured with science,
And everything else, save love.
A wholly Platonic friendship
You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
Though both were in their youth,
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth!
What would you have done, I wonder,
Had I gone on my knees to you
And told you my passionate story,
There in the dusk and the dew?
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long –
My story of hopeless loving –
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered,
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning,
And I said a calm goodnight.
But now when I sit in the twilight,
Or when I walk by the sea
That friendship, quite Platonic,
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk, the dew;
For the beautiful summer vanished,
For the moonlight walks – and you.
👁️ 347
PH. Best & Co.'s Lager-Beer
PH. Best & Co.'s Lager-Beer
In every part of the thrifty town,
Whether my course be up or down,
In lane, and alley, and avenue,
Painted in yellow, and red, and blue,
This side and that, east and west,
Was this flaunting sign-board of 'Ph. Best.'
'Twas hung high up, and swung in the air
With a swaggering, bold-faced, 'devil-may-careIt-
is-none-of-your-business' sort of way;
Or, as if dreading the light o' the day,
It hung low, over a basement-stair,
And seemed ashamed when you saw it there.
Or it shone like a wicked and evil eye
From a 'restaurant' door on passers-by,
And seemed with a twinkling wink to say:
'Are you bound for hell? Then step this way;
This is the ticket-office of sin;
If you think of purchasing, pray, walk in.'
Or it glared from a window where the light
Of the lamps within shone full and bright,
And seemed to be saying, 'Come out of the storm!
Come into my haven snug and warm;
I will give you warmth from the flowing bowl,
And all I ask is your purse and soul.'
But whether on window, door, or stair,
Wherever I went, it was always there;
Painted in yellow, and red, and blue,
It stared from alley and avenue:
It was north, and south, and east, and west,
The lager-beer of this Philip Best.
And who was Philip Best, you ask?
Oh! he was a man, whose noble task
Was the brewing of beer-good beer, first-class-
That should sparkle, and bubble, and boil in the glass:
Should sparkle and flow till drank, and then
Feast like a vampire on brains of men.
Ah! Philip Best, you have passed from view,
But your name and your works live after you.
Come, brothers, raise him a monument,
Inscribed, 'Here lies the man who sent
A million of souls to the depths of hell;
Turned genius and worth to the prison-cell;
Stole bread from the mouth of the hungry child:
Made the father a brute, and the mother wild;
Filled happy homes with dread unrest:
Oh! a very great man was Philip Best.
O Ph. Best! you have passed from view,
But your nameand your deeds live after you.'
In every part of the thrifty town,
Whether my course be up or down,
In lane, and alley, and avenue,
Painted in yellow, and red, and blue,
This side and that, east and west,
Was this flaunting sign-board of 'Ph. Best.'
'Twas hung high up, and swung in the air
With a swaggering, bold-faced, 'devil-may-careIt-
is-none-of-your-business' sort of way;
Or, as if dreading the light o' the day,
It hung low, over a basement-stair,
And seemed ashamed when you saw it there.
Or it shone like a wicked and evil eye
From a 'restaurant' door on passers-by,
And seemed with a twinkling wink to say:
'Are you bound for hell? Then step this way;
This is the ticket-office of sin;
If you think of purchasing, pray, walk in.'
Or it glared from a window where the light
Of the lamps within shone full and bright,
And seemed to be saying, 'Come out of the storm!
Come into my haven snug and warm;
I will give you warmth from the flowing bowl,
And all I ask is your purse and soul.'
But whether on window, door, or stair,
Wherever I went, it was always there;
Painted in yellow, and red, and blue,
It stared from alley and avenue:
It was north, and south, and east, and west,
The lager-beer of this Philip Best.
And who was Philip Best, you ask?
Oh! he was a man, whose noble task
Was the brewing of beer-good beer, first-class-
That should sparkle, and bubble, and boil in the glass:
Should sparkle and flow till drank, and then
Feast like a vampire on brains of men.
Ah! Philip Best, you have passed from view,
But your name and your works live after you.
Come, brothers, raise him a monument,
Inscribed, 'Here lies the man who sent
A million of souls to the depths of hell;
Turned genius and worth to the prison-cell;
Stole bread from the mouth of the hungry child:
Made the father a brute, and the mother wild;
Filled happy homes with dread unrest:
Oh! a very great man was Philip Best.
O Ph. Best! you have passed from view,
But your nameand your deeds live after you.'
👁️ 310
Perfectness
Perfectness
All perfect things are saddening in effect.
The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes,
The matchless tinting on the royal rose
Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked,
Love's supreme moment, when the soul unchecked
Soars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows—
These hold a deeper pathos than our woes,
Since they leave nothing better to expect.
Resistless change, when powerless to improve,
Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray;
Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day;
The lose will not seem quite so fait, and love
Must find its measures of delight made less.
Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!
All perfect things are saddening in effect.
The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes,
The matchless tinting on the royal rose
Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked,
Love's supreme moment, when the soul unchecked
Soars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows—
These hold a deeper pathos than our woes,
Since they leave nothing better to expect.
Resistless change, when powerless to improve,
Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray;
Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day;
The lose will not seem quite so fait, and love
Must find its measures of delight made less.
Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!
👁️ 307
Peek-A-Boo
Peek-A-Boo
The cunningest thing that a baby can do
Is the very first time it plays peek-a-boo;
When it hides its pink little face in its hands,
And crows, and shows that it understands
What nurse, and mamma and papa, too,
Mean when they hide and cry, 'Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.'
Oh, what a wonderful thing it is,
When they find that baby can play like this;
And everyone listens, and thinks it true
That baby's gurgle means 'Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo';
And over and over the changes are rung
On the marvelous infant who talks so young.
I wonder if any one ever knew
A baby that never played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
'Tis old as the hills are. I believe
Cain was taught it by Mother Eve;
For Cain was an innocent baby, too,
And I am sure he played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
And the whole world full of the children of men,
Have all of them played that game since then.
Kings and princes and beggars, too,
Everyone has played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
Thief and robber and ruffian bold,
The crazy tramp and the drunkard old,
All have been babies who laughed and knew
How to hide, and play peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
The cunningest thing that a baby can do
Is the very first time it plays peek-a-boo;
When it hides its pink little face in its hands,
And crows, and shows that it understands
What nurse, and mamma and papa, too,
Mean when they hide and cry, 'Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.'
Oh, what a wonderful thing it is,
When they find that baby can play like this;
And everyone listens, and thinks it true
That baby's gurgle means 'Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo';
And over and over the changes are rung
On the marvelous infant who talks so young.
I wonder if any one ever knew
A baby that never played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
'Tis old as the hills are. I believe
Cain was taught it by Mother Eve;
For Cain was an innocent baby, too,
And I am sure he played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
And the whole world full of the children of men,
Have all of them played that game since then.
Kings and princes and beggars, too,
Everyone has played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
Thief and robber and ruffian bold,
The crazy tramp and the drunkard old,
All have been babies who laughed and knew
How to hide, and play peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
👁️ 323
Pardoned Out
Pardoned Out
I’m pardoned out. Again the stars
Shine on me with their myriad eyes.
So long I’ve peered ‘twixt iron bars,
I’m awed by this expanse of skies.
The world is wider than I thought,
And yet ‘tis not so wide, I know,
But into its remotest spot
My tale of shame can go.
I’m pardoned out. Old Father Time
Who seemed to halt in horror, when
I strained my manhood by a crime,
With steady step moves on again,
And through the black appalling night,
That walled me in a gloom accurst,
The wonder of the morning light
In sudden glory burst.
I’m pardoned out. I shall be knows
No more by number, but by name.
And yet each whispering wind has blown
Abroad the story of my shame.
I dread to see men shrink away
With startled looks of scorn or fear,
When in life’s crowded marts some day,
That name falls on their ear.
I’m pardoned out, ah God! to roam
Like some whipped dog among my kind.
I have no friends, I have no home,
Save these bleak walls I leave behind.
How can I face the world of men,
My comrades in the days of yore?
Oh! hide me in my cell again,
And, warden lock the door.
I’m pardoned out. Again the stars
Shine on me with their myriad eyes.
So long I’ve peered ‘twixt iron bars,
I’m awed by this expanse of skies.
The world is wider than I thought,
And yet ‘tis not so wide, I know,
But into its remotest spot
My tale of shame can go.
I’m pardoned out. Old Father Time
Who seemed to halt in horror, when
I strained my manhood by a crime,
With steady step moves on again,
And through the black appalling night,
That walled me in a gloom accurst,
The wonder of the morning light
In sudden glory burst.
I’m pardoned out. I shall be knows
No more by number, but by name.
And yet each whispering wind has blown
Abroad the story of my shame.
I dread to see men shrink away
With startled looks of scorn or fear,
When in life’s crowded marts some day,
That name falls on their ear.
I’m pardoned out, ah God! to roam
Like some whipped dog among my kind.
I have no friends, I have no home,
Save these bleak walls I leave behind.
How can I face the world of men,
My comrades in the days of yore?
Oh! hide me in my cell again,
And, warden lock the door.
👁️ 364
Over The May Hill
Over The May Hill
All through the night time, and all through the day time,
Dreading the morning and dreading the night,
Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time
Season of beauty and season of blight,
Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,
Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere,
Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,
Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.
Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,
Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens,
Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary-
Too well I know what that weariness means.
But how could I know in the crisp winter weather
(Though sometimes I notices a catch in your breath),
Riding and singing and dancing together,
How could I know you were racing with death?
How could I know when we danced until morning,
And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd-
With only that shortness of breath for a warning,
How could I know that you danced for a shroud?
Whirling and whirling through moonlight and star-light,
Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave,
Down in your eyes shone a deep light-a far light,
How could I know 'twas the light to your grave?
Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing,
Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom,
Cometh the shape and the shadow I'm fearing,
'Over the May hill' is waiting your tomb.
The season of mirth and of music is over-
I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song,
Under the violets, under the clover,
My heart and my love will be lying ere long.
All through the night time, and all through the day time,
Dreading the morning and dreading the night,
Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time
Season of beauty and season of blight,
Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,
Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere,
Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,
Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.
Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,
Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens,
Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary-
Too well I know what that weariness means.
But how could I know in the crisp winter weather
(Though sometimes I notices a catch in your breath),
Riding and singing and dancing together,
How could I know you were racing with death?
How could I know when we danced until morning,
And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd-
With only that shortness of breath for a warning,
How could I know that you danced for a shroud?
Whirling and whirling through moonlight and star-light,
Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave,
Down in your eyes shone a deep light-a far light,
How could I know 'twas the light to your grave?
Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing,
Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom,
Cometh the shape and the shadow I'm fearing,
'Over the May hill' is waiting your tomb.
The season of mirth and of music is over-
I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song,
Under the violets, under the clover,
My heart and my love will be lying ere long.
👁️ 327
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox (November 5, 1850 – October 30, 1919)
Ella Wheeler Wilcox was an American author and poet. Her best-known work
was Poems of Passion. Her most enduring work was " Solitude", which
contains the lines: "Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you
weep alone". Her autobiography, The Worlds and I, was published in 1918, a
year before her death.
Biography
Ella Wheeler was born in 1850 on a farm in Johnstown, Wisconsin, east of
Janesville, the youngest of four children. The family soon moved north of
Madison. She started writing poetry at a very early age, and was well known
as a poet in her own state by the time she graduated from high school.
Her most famous poem, "Solitude", was first published in the February 25,
1883 issue of The New York Sun. The inspiration for the poem came as she
was travelling to attend the Governor's inaugural ball in Madison, Wisconsin.
On her way to the celebration, there was a young woman dressed in black
sitting across the aisle from her. The woman was crying. Miss Wheeler sat
next to her and sought to comfort her for the rest of the journey. When they
arrived, the poet was so depressed that she could barely attend the
scheduled festivities. As she looked at her own radiant face in the mirror, she
suddenly recalled the sorrowful widow. It was at that moment that she wrote
the opening lines of "Solitude":
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
She sent the poem to the Sun and received $5 for her effort. It was collected
in the book Poems of Passion shortly after in May 1883.
In 1884, she married Robert Wilcox of Meriden, Connecticut, where the
couple lived before moving to New York City and then to Granite Bay in the
Short Beach section of Branford, Connecticut. The two homes they built on
Long Island Sound, along with several cottages, became known as Bungalow
Court, and they would hold gatherings there of literary and artistic friends.
They had one child, a son, who died shortly after birth. Not long after their
marriage, they both became interested in theosophy, new thought, and
spiritualism.
Early in their married life, Robert and Ella Wheeler Wilcox promised each
other that whoever went first through death would return and communicate
with the other. Robert Wilcox died in 1916, after over thirty years of
marriage. She was overcome with grief, which became ever more intense as
week after week went without any message from him. It was at this time
that she went to California to see the Rosicrucian astrologer, Max Heindel,
still seeking help in her sorrow, still unable to understand why she had no
word from her Robert. She wrote of this meeting:
In talking with Max Heindel, the leader of the Rosicrucian Philosophy in
California, he made very clear to me the effect of intense grief. Mr. Heindel
assured me that I would come in touch with the spirit of my husband when I
learned to control my sorrow. I replied that it seemed strange to me that an
omnipotent God could not send a flash of his light into a suffering soul to
bring its conviction when most needed. Did you ever stand beside a clear
pool of water, asked Mr. Heindel, and see the trees and skies repeated
therein? And did you ever cast a stone into that pool and see it clouded and
turmoiled, so it gave no reflection? Yet the skies and trees were waiting
above to be reflected when the waters grew calm. So God and your
husband's spirit wait to show themselves to you when the turbulence of
sorrow is quieted.
Several months later, she composed a little mantra or affirmative prayer
which she said over and over "I am the living witness: The dead live: And
they speak through us and to us: And I am the voice that gives this glorious
truth to the suffering world: I am ready, God: I am ready, Christ: I am
ready, Robert.".
Wilcox made efforts to teach occult things to the world. Her works, filled with
positive thinking, were popular in the New Thought Movement and by 1915
her booklet, What I Know About New Thought had a distribution of 50,000
copies, according to its publisher, Elizabeth Towne.
The following statement expresses Wilcox's unique blending of New Thought,
Spiritualism, and a Theosophical belief in reincarnation: "As we think, act,
and live here today, we built the structures of our homes in spirit realms
after we leave earth, and we build karma for future lives, thousands of years
to come, on this earth or other planets. Life will assume new dignity, and
labor new interest for us, when we come to the knowledge that death is but
a continuation of life and labor, in higher planes".
Her final words in her autobiography The Worlds and I: "From this mighty
storehouse (of God, and the hierarchies of Spiritual Beings ) we may gather
wisdom and knowledge, and receive light and power, as we pass through this
preparatory room of earth, which is only one of the innumerable mansions in
our Father's house. Think on these things".
Ella Wheeler Wilcox died of cancer on October 30, 1919
Poetry
A popular poet rather than a literary poet, in her poems she expresses
sentiments of cheer and optimism in plainly written, rhyming verse. Her
world view is expressed in the title of her poem "Whatever Is—Is Best",
suggesting an echo of Alexander Pope's "Whatever is, is right."
None of Wilcox's works were included by F. O. Matthiessen in The Oxford
Book of American Verse, but Hazel Felleman chose no fewer than fourteen of
her poems for Best Loved Poems of the American People, while Martin
Gardner selected "Solitude" and "The Winds of Fate" for Best Remembered
Poems.
She is frequently cited in anthologies of bad poetry, such as The Stuffed Owl:
An Anthology of Bad Verse and Very Bad Poetry. Sinclair Lewis indicates
Babbitt's lack of literary sophistication by having him refer to a piece of verse
as "one of the classic poems, like 'If' by Kipling, or Ella Wheeler Wilcox's 'The
Man Worth While.'" The latter opens:
It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
Her most famous lines open her poem "Solitude":
Laugh and the world laughs with you,
Weep, and you weep alone;
The good old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
"The Winds of Fate" is a marvel of economy, far too short to summarize. In
full:
One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
'Tis the set of the sails,
And Not the gales,
That tell us the way to go.
Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate;
As we voyage along through life,
'Tis the set of a soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox cared about alleviating animal suffering, as can be seen
from her poem, Voice of the Voiceless. It begins as follows.
I am the voice of the voiceless;
Through me the dumb shall speak,
Till the deaf world’s ear be made to hear
The wrongs of the wordless weak.
From street, from cage, and from kennel,
From stable and zoo, the wail
Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin
Of the mighty against the frail.
Legacy
Her quote "Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes" is inscribed on a
paving slab in Jack Kerouac Alley in San Francisco (next to the City Lights
Bookstore).
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's name provided the unlikely inspiration for doggerel by
the English humorist Richard Murdoch, which he set to the opening bars of
Alexandre Luigini's Ballet égyptien.
The first stanza of her poem "The Man Worth While" can be found in Disney's
Hollywood Studios, in the boiler room portion of the queue for The Twilight
Zone Tower of Terror.
Oliver's Stone movie JFK starts with a quote from her: "To sin by silence
when we should protest makes cowards out of men".
The first stanza of "The Man Worth While" is parodied in the movie
Caddyshack when the character Judge Smails (played by Ted Knight) reads
the following at the christening of his yacht: "It's easy to grin when your ship
comes in / And you've got the stock market beat. / But the man worthwhile
is the man who can smile / When his shorts are too tight in the seat."
The opening lines in her poem "Solitude" are recited in Park Chan-wook's
film Oldboy.
Her poem "Over the Banisters" was adapted into a song for Judy Garland in
the film "Meet Me in St. Louis".
Her poem "I like cigars beneath the stars" was set to music by an "E. C.
Walker," possibly British and not the politician E. C. Walker. The song was
recorded by the Huelgas Ensemble in 2010.
Eserleri:
Books
The Heart of New Thought, Chicago: The Psychic Research Company, 1902.
92 pages.
The Worlds and I, New York: George II Doran Company, c1918 www
Poetry
The Invisible Helpers in Cosmopolitan 57 (October 1914): 578-579 www
The Voice of the Voiceless
Disarmament
Roads to God
To An Astrologer
Secret Thoughts
An Ambitious Man
An Englishman and Other Poems
Hello, Boys!
The Kingdom of Love
Maurine and other Poems
New Thought Pastels
Poems of Cheer
Poems of Experience
Poems of Optimism
Poems of Passion
Poems of Power
Poems of Progress
Poems of Purpose
Poems of Sentiment
A Woman of the World
Yesterday
Poems of Reflection, 1905 copyright, M. A. Donahue & Co. (publisher)