Leafs On An Idle Breeze - My Inspirational Poems E-Book
Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
Ella Wheeler Wilcox is most known for her inspiring, positive-thinking, up-cheering, passionate and deeply sentimental poems. This edition contains the quintessence of her work with several hundred poems, every one worth reading twice and more. The book is divided into the following chapters: I. Custer And Other Inspirational Poems II. The Englishman And Other Poems III. The Kingdom Of Love And Other Inspirational Poems IV. Maurine And Other Inspirational Poems V. Poems Of Cheer VI. Poems Of Optimism VII. Poems Of Passion VIII. Poems Of Power IX. Poems Of Progress X. Poems Of Purpose XI. Poems Of Sentiment XII. Yesterdays XIII. New Thought Pastels This is the extended annotated edition including a very rare essay about Mrs. Wilcox, her life and her strivings.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 1144
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Leafs On An Idle Breeze - My Inspirational Poems
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Contents:
Editor's Foreword
Ella Wheeler Wilcox - A Famous Authoress Tells Literary Aspirants The Story Of Her Struggle For Recognition.
How Her Best Poems Were Written.
She Is A Pronounced Optimist.
Do Not Fear Criticism.
Merit Is Not Always Discovered Quickly.
Editors Are Anxious For Good Articles.
Perseverance Counts In Authorship.
I. Custer And Other Inspirational Poems
The World's Need
High Noon
Transformation
Thought-Magnets
Smiles
The Undiscovered Country
The Universal Route
Earthly Pride
Unanswered Prayers
Thanksgiving
A Maiden To Her Mirror
The Kettle
Contrasts
Thy Ship
The Tryst
Life
A Marine Etching
The Duel
"Love Thyself Last"
Christmas Fancies
The River
Sorry
The Old Wooden Cradle
Ambition's Trail
The Traveled Man
Uncontrolled
The Tulip Bed At Greeley Square
Will
To An Astrologer
The Tendril's Faith
The Times
The Question
Sorrow's Uses
If
Which Are You?
The Creed To Be
Music In The Flat
Inspiration
The Wish
Three Friends
You Never Can Tell
Here And Now
Unconquered
All That Love Asks
Does It Pay
Sestina
The Optimist
The Pessimist
The Hammock's Complaint
Life's Harmonies
Preaching Vs. Practice
An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride
I Am
Two Nights
Preparation
Custer
Ii. The Englishman And Other Poems
Preface - The Queen’s Last Ride
The Englishman
Canada
The Call
Coronation Poem And Prayer
Two Voices
A Ballade Of The Unborn Dead
The Truth Teller
Just You
Reflection
Songs Of Love And The Sea
Acquaintance
In India’s Dreamy Land
Rangoon
Thoughts On Leaving Japan
On Seeing The Diabutsu - At Kamakura, Japan
The Little Lady Of The Bullock Cart
East And West
The Squanderer
Compensations
Song Of The Rail
Always At Sea
The Suitors
The Jealous Gods
God Rules Alway
The Cure
The Forecast
Little Girls
Science
The Earth
The Muse And The Poet
The Spinster
Brotherhood
‘The Tavern Of Last Times’
The Two Ages
If I Were
Warned
Forward
In England
Karma
The Gossips
Together
Petition
A Waft Of Perfume
The Plough
Go Plant A Tree
Pain’s Purpose
Memory’s Mansion
Old Rhythm And Rhyme
All In A Coach And Four
Songs Of A Country Home
Worthy The Name Of ‘Sir Knight’
Iii. The Kingdom Of Love And Other Inspirational Poems
The Kingdom Of Love
Meg’s Curse
Solitude
The Gossips
Platonic
Grandpa’s Christmas
After The Engagement
A Holiday
False
Two Sinners
The Phantom Ball
Words And Thoughts
Wanted—A Little Girl
The Suicide
“Now I Lay Me”
The Messenger
A Servian Legend
Peek-A-Boo
The Falling Of Thrones
Her Last Letter
The Princess’s Finger-Nail: A Tale Of Nonsense Land
A Baby In The House
The Foolish Elm
Robin’s Mistake
New Year Resolve
What We Want
Breaking The Day In Two
The Rape Of The Mist
The Two Glasses
The Maniac
What Is Flirtation?
Husband And Wife
How Does Love Speak?
Reincarnation
As You Go Through Life
How Salvator Won
The Watcher
How Will It Be?
Memory’s River
Love’s Way
A Man’s Last Love
The Lady And The Dame
Confession
I
Ii
L’envoi
A Married Coquette
Forbidden Speech
The Summer Girl
The Ghost
The Signboard
A Man’s Repentance (Intended For Recitation At Club Dinners.)
Aristarchus (The Name Of The Mountain In The Moon)
Dell And I
About May
Vanity Fair
The Giddy Girl
A Girl’s Autumn Reverie
His Youth
Under The Sheet
A Pin
The Coming Man
Iv. Maurine And Other Inspirational Poems
Maurine
Two Sunsets.
Unrest.
"Artist's Life."
Nothing But Stones.
The Coquette.
Inevitable.
The Ocean Of Song
"It Might Have Been."
If.
Gethsemane.
Dust-Sealed.
"Advice."
Over The Banisters.
Momus, God Of Laughter.
I Dream.
The Past.
The Sonnet.
Secrets.
A Dream.
Uselessness.
Will
Winter Rain.
Applause.
Life.
Burdened.
The Story.
Let Them Go.
The Engine.
Nothing New.
Dreams.
Helena.
Nothing Remains.
Lean Down.
Comrades.
What Gain?
Life.
To The West.
The Land Of Content.
A Song Of Life.
Warning.
The Christian's New Year Prayer.
In The Night.
God's Measure.
A March Snow.
After The Battles Are Over.
Noblesse Oblige.
And They Are Dumb.
Night.
All For Me.
Philosophy.
"Carlos."
The Two Glasses.
Through Tears.
Into Space.
Through Dim Eyes.
La Mort D'amour.
The Punished.
Half Fledged.
Love's Sleep.
True Culture.
The Voluptuary.
The Year.
The Unattained.
In The Crowd.
Life And I.
Guerdon.
Snowed Under.
Platonic.
What We Needed.
"Leudemann's-On-The-River."
In The Long Run.
Plea To Science.
Love's Burial.
Little Blue Hood.
No Spring.
Lippo.
Midsummer.
A Reminiscence.
Respite.
A Girl's Faith.
Two.
Slipping Away.
Is It Done?
A Leaf.
Aesthetic.
Poems Of The Week.
Ghosts.
Fleeing Away.
All Mad.
Hidden Gems.
By-And-By.
Over The May Hill.
A Song.
Foes.
Friendship.
V. Poems Of Cheer
Worth While
The House Of Life
A Song Of Life
Prayer
In The Long Run
As You Go Through Life
Two Sunsets
Unrest
"Artist's Life"
Nothing But Stones
Inevitable
The Ocean Of Song
"It Might Have Been"
Momus, God Of Laughter
I Dream
The Sonnet
The Past
A Dream
Uselessness
Will
Winter Rain
Life
Burdened
Let Them Go
Five Kisses
I—The Mother's Kiss
Retrospection
Helena
Nothing Remains
Comrades
What Gain?
To The West
The Land Of Content
Warning
After The Battles Are Over
And They Are Dumb
Night
All For Me
Into Space
Through Dim Eyes
The Punished
Half Fledged
The Year
The Unattained
In The Crowd
Life And I
Guerdon
Snowed Under
"Leudemanns-On-The-River."
Little Blue Hood
No Spring
Midsummer
A Reminiscence
A Girl's Faith
Two
Slipping Away
Is It Done?
A Leaf
Aesthetic
Poems Of The Week
Sunday
Ghosts
Fleeing Away
All Mad
Hidden Gems
By-And-Bye
Over The May Hill
Foes
Friendship
Two Sat Down
Bound And Free
Aquileia
Wishes For A Little Girl
Romney
My Home
To Marry Or Not To Marry? A Girl's Reverie
An Afternoon
River And Sea
What Happens?
Possession
Vi. Poems Of Optimism
Greater Britain
Belgium
Knitting
Mobilisation
Neutral
A Book For The King
The Men-Made Gods
The Ghosts
The Poet’s Theme
Europe
After
The Peace Angel
Peace Should Not Come
The Winds Of Fate
Beauty
The Invisible Helpers
To The Women Of Australia
Replies
Earth Bound
A Successful Man
Unsatisfied
Separation
To The Teachers Of The Young
Beauty Making
On Avon’s Breast I Saw A Stately Swan
The Little Go-Cart
I Am Running Forth To Meet You
Martyrs Of Peace
Home
The Eternal Now
If I Were A Man, A Young Man
We Must Send Them Out To Play
Protest
Reward
This Is My Task
The Statue
Behold The Earth
What They Saw
His Last Letter
A Dialogue
A Wish
Justice
An Old Song
Oh, Poor, Sick World
Praise Day
Interlude
The Land Of The Gone-Away-Souls
The Harp’s Song
The Pendulum
An Old-Fashioned Type
The Sword
Love And The Seasons
A Naughty Little Comet
The Last Dance
A Vagabond Mind
My Flower Room
My Faith
Arrow And Bow
If We Should Meet Him
Faith
The Secret Of Prayer
The Answer
A Vision
The Second Coming
Vii. Poems Of Passion
Love's Language.
Impatience.
Communism.
The Common Lot.
Individuality.
Friendship After Love.
Queries.
Upon The Sand.
Reunited.
What Shall We Do?
"The Beautiful Blue Danube."
Answered.
Through The Valley.
But One.
Guilo.
The Duet.
Little Queen.
Wherefore?
Delilah.
Love Song.
Time And Love.
Change.
Desolation.
Isaura.
The Coquette.
New And Old.
Not Quite The Same.
From The Grave.
A Waltz-Quadrille.
Beppo.
Tired.
The Speech Of Silence.
Conversion.
Love's Coming.
Old And New.
Perfectness.
Attraction.
Gracia.
Ad Finem.
Bleak Weather.
An Answer.
You Will Forget Me.
The Farewell Of Clarimonde.
The Trio.
Miscellaneous Poems.
The Lost Garden.
Art And Heart.
Mockery.
As By Fire.
If I Should Die.
Mésalliance.
Response.
Drouth.
The Creed.
Progress.
My Friend.
Creation.
Red Carnations.
Life Is Too Short.
A Sculptor.
Beyond.
The Saddest Hour.
Show Me The Way.
My Heritage.
Resolve.
At Eleusis.
Courage.
Solitude.
The Year Outgrows The Spring.
The Beautiful Land Of Nod.
The Tiger.
Only A Simple Rhyme.
I Will Be Worthy Of It.
Sonnet.
Regret.
Let Me Lean Hard.
Penalty.
Sunset.
The Wheel Of The Breast.
A Meeting.
Earnestness.
A Picture.
Twin-Born.
Floods.
A Fable.
Viii. Poems Of Power
The Queen’s Last Ride
The Meeting Of The Centuries
Death Has Crowned Him A Martyr (Written On The Day Of President Mckinley’s Death)
Grief
Illusion
Assertion
I Am
Wishing
We Two
The Poet’s Theme
Song Of The Spirit
Womanhood
Morning Prayer
The Voices Of The People
The World Grows Better
A Man’s Ideal
The Fire Brigade
The Tides
When The Regiment Came Back
Woman To Man
The Traveller
The Earth
Now
You And To-Day
The Reason
Mission
Repetition
Begin The Day
Words
Fate And I
Attainment
A Plea To Peace
Presumption
High Noon
Thought-Magnets
Smiles
The Undiscovered Country
The Universal Route
Unanswered Prayers
Thanksgiving
Contrasts
Thy Ship
Life
A Marine Etching
“Love Thyself Last”
Christmas Fancies
The River
Sorry
Ambition’s Trail
Uncontrolled
Will
To An Astrologer
The Tendril’s Fate
The Times
The Question
Sorrow’s Uses
If
Which Are You?
The Creed To Be
Inspiration
The Wish
Three Friends
You Never Can Tell
Here And Now
Unconquered
All That Love Asks
“Does It Pay?”
Sestina
The Optimist
The Pessimist
An Inspiration
Life’s Harmonies
Preparation
Gethsemane
God’s Measure
Noblesse Oblige
Through Tears
What We Need
Plea To Science
Respite
Song
My Ships
Her Love
If
Love’s Burial
“Love Is Enough”
Life Is A Privilege
Insight
A Woman’s Answer
The World’s Need
Ix. Poems Of Progress
Preface: Love's Language
The Land Between
Love's Mirage
The Need Of The World
The Gulf Stream
Remembered
Lais When Young
Lais When Old
Existence
Holiday Songs
I
Astrolabius (The Child Of Abelard And Heloise)
Completion
Sleep's Treachery
Art Versus Cupid
The Revolt Of Vashti (From The Drama Of Mizpah)
Ahasueras
The Choosing Of Esther (From The Drama Of Mizpah)
Ahasueras
Honeymoon Scene (From The Drama Of Mizpah)
Ahasueras
The Cost
The Voice
God's Answer
The Edict Of The Sex
The World-Child
The Heights
On Seeing 'The House Of Julia' At Herculaneum
A Prayer
What Is Right Living?
Justice
Time's Gaze
The Worker And The Work
Art Thou Alive?
To-Day
The Ladder
Who Is A Christian?
The Goal
The Spur
Awakened!
Shadows
The New Commandment
Summer Dreams
The Breaking Of Chains
December
'The Way'
The Leader To Be
The Greater Love
Thank God For Life
Time Enough
New Year's Day
Life Is A Privilege
In An Old Art Gallery
True Brotherhood
The Decadent
Lord, Speak Again
My Heaven
Life
God's Kin
Conquest
The Statue
Sirius
At Fontainebleau
The Masquerade
Sympathy
Intermediary
Life's Car
Opportunity
The Age Of Motored Things
New Year
Disarmament
The Call
A Little Song
X. Poems Of Purpose
A Good Sport
A Son Speaks
The Younger Born
Happiness
Seeking For Happiness
The Island Of Endless Play
The River Of Sleep
The Things That Count
Limitless
What They Saw
The Convention
Protest
A Bachelor To A Married Flirt
The Superwoman
Certitude
Compassion
Love
Three Souls
When Love Is Lost
Occupation
The Valley Of Fear
What Would It Be?
America
War Mothers
A Holiday
The Undertone
Gypsying
Song Of The Road
The Faith We Need
The Price He Paid
Divorced
The Revealing Angels
The Well-Born
Sisters Of Mine
Answer
The Graduates
The Silent Tragedy
The Trinity
The Unwed Mother To The Wife
Father And Son
Husks
Meditations
The Traveller
What Have You Done?
Xi. Poems Of Sentiment
Double Carnations
Never Mind
Two Women
It All Will Come Out Right
A Warning
Shrines
The Watcher
Swimming Song
The Law
Love, Time, And Will
The Two Ages
Couleur De Rose
Last Love
Life’s Track
An Ode To Time
Regret And Remorse
Easter Morn
Blind
The Yellow-Covered Almanac
The Little White Hearse
Realisation (At The Old Homestead)
Success
The Lady And The Dame
Heaven And Hell
Love’s Supremacy
The Eternal Will
Insight
A Woman’s Love
The Pæan Of Peace
“Has Been”
Duty’s Path
March
The End Of The Summer
Sun Shadows
“He That Looketh”
An Erring Woman’s Love
A Song Of Republics
Memorial Day - 1892
When Baby Souls Sail Out
To Another Woman’s Baby
Diamonds
Rubies
Sapphires
Turquoise
Reform
A Minor Chord
Death’s Protest
September
Wail Of An Old-Timer
Was, Is, And Yet-To-Be
Mistakes
Dual
The All-Creative Spark
Be Not Content
Action
Two Roses
Satiety
A Solar Eclipse
A Suggestion To C. A. D.
The Depths
Life’s Opera
The Salt Sea-Wind
New Year
Concentration
Thoughts
Luck
Xii. Yesterdays
An Old Heart
Warp And Woof
So Long
If I Could Only Weep
Why Should We Sigh
A Wakeful Night
If One Should Dive Deep
Two
No Comfort
It Does Not Matter
The Under-Tone
Worth Living
More Fortunate
He Will Not Come
Worn Out
Rondeau
Trifles
Courage
The Other
Mad
Which
Love’s Burial
Incomplete
On Rainy Days
Geraldine
Only In Dreams
Circumstance
Simple Creeds
The Bridal Eve
Good Night
No Place
Found
A Man’s Reverie
When My Sweet Lady Sings
Spectres
Only A Line
Parting
Estranged
Before And After
An Empty Crib
The Arrival
Go Back
Why I Love Her
Discontent
A Dream
The Night
New Year
Reverie
The Law
Spirit Of A Great Control
Noon
The Search
A Man’s Good-Bye
At The Hop
Met
Returned Birds
A Crushed Leaf
A Curious Story
Jenny Lind
Life’s Key
Bridge Of Prayer
New Year
Deceitful Calm
Un Rencontre
Burned Out
Only A Glove
Reminders
A Dirge
Not Anchored
The New Love
An East Wind
Cheating Time
Only A Slight Flirtation
What The Rain Saw
After
Our Petty Cares
The Ship And The Boat
Come Near
A Suggestion
A Fisherman’s Baby
Content And Happiness
The Cusine
I Wonder Why
A Woman’s Hand
Presentiment
Two Rooms
Three At The Opera
A Strain Of Music
Smoke
An Autumn Day
Wishes
The Play
As We Look Back (Rondeau)
Why
Listen
Together
One Night
Lost Nation
The Captive
No Song
Two Friends
I Didn’t Think
A Burial
Their Faces
The Lullaby
Mirage
Alone In The House
An Old Bouquet
At The Bridal
Best
Xiii. New Thought Pastels
A Dialogue
The Weed
Strength
Affirm
The Chosen
The Nameless
The Word
Assistance
'Credulity'
Consciousness
The Structure
Our Souls
The Law
Knowledge
Give
Perfection
Fear
The Way
Understood
His Mansion
Effect
Three Things
Obstacles
Prayer
Climbing
Realisation
Leafs On An Idle Breeze, E. W. Wilcox
Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck
86450 Altenmünster, Germany
ISBN: 9783849623432
www.jazzybee-verlag.de
Editor's Foreword
It is intentional that some poems appear in multiple sections of this book. The reasons therefore are first, to place a poem in every section it belongs to and second, to leave the original structure of Mrs. Wheeler's books intact.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox - A Famous Authoress Tells Literary Aspirants the Story of Her Struggle for Recognition.
BORN and reared in Wisconsin, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, although a resident of New York, is still faithful to the ideals and aspirations of the young and vigorous western state in which she first saw the light. She began writing at an early age, and still has in her possession childish verses, composed when she was only eight years old.
She was, however, far from any literary center; she had no one upon whom she might rely for advice as to her methods, and she had no influential friends, for her family was not a wealthy one. The usual difficulties, so familiar to all beginners, met her at every step; discouragements were endured day after day, and year after year. After a while, she began writing for various periodicals. Her first poems appeared in the New York Mercury, the Waverly Magazine, and Leslie's publications. It was from the publishing house of Frank Leslie she received her first check. Her income from literary work was very small and recognition came quite slowly. But courage, and patience, and fortitude, finally won the day.
HOW HER BEST POEMS WERE WRITTEN.
One of her most famous poems, beginning, "Laugh and the World Laughs with You," was written about February, 1883, at Madison, Wisconsin. She had talked with a friend who had been bereaved by death in her household; later, while dressing for an inaugural ball, given in honor of the governor of Wisconsin, she was startled to think how soon the mind turns from stories of sorrow to scenes of gayety. Thus she formed the idea of this famous poem. It originally appeared in the New York Sun, and the author received five dollars for it. Subsequently, an attempt was made to pirate the verses as the composition of another; but the effort was, happily, a complete failure. The poem embodying the idea,
"A question is never settled
Until it is settled right,"
with which W. J. Bryan concludes his book, was written by her after hearing a gentleman make a remark in those words at the conclusion of a heated argument, on the single-tax question. The gentleman was afterward told that Lincoln had made use of this exact expression, years ago. But neither the gentleman in question, nor Mrs. Wilcox herself, had ever heard the expression before.
"The Two Glasses," one of her brightest poems, was written at the age of eighteen. Although this was a "temperance poem," she had never, up to that time, seen a glass of beer or wine. This poem, too, was pirated by one who pretended to be the author.
"The Birth of the Opal" was suggested by Herman Marcus, the Broadway jeweler, who advanced the idea of the opal being the child of the sunlight and moonlight.
"Wherever You Are," originally appeared in Leslie's Popular Monthly. A young man who had served a term in Auburn Prison read this poem, and it became the means of his reformation. Mrs. Wilcox lent him a helping hand, and he is to-day a hard-working, honest, worthy man.
She regards the poems, "High Noon," "To An Astrologer," and "The Creed," as probably her best efforts. It will thus be noted that she does not prefer the more fervid poems of passion, written in her early youth.
THE CREED.
Whoever was begotten by pure love,
And came desired and welcomed into life,
Is of immaculate conception.
He Whose heart is full of tenderness and truth,
Who loves mankind more than he loves himself,
And cannot find room in his heart for hate,
May be another Christ.
We all may be The Saviors of the world, if we believe
In the Divinity which dwells in us,
And worship it, and nail our grosser selves,
Our tempers, greeds, and our unworthy aims
Upon the cross. Who giveth love to all,
Pays kindness for unkindness, smiles for frowns,
And lends new courage to each fainting heart,
And strengthens hope and scatters joy abroad,
He, too, is a Reedemer, Son of God.
Mrs. Wilcox lives in New York City from November to May, and in her cottage at Short Beach, Connecticut, during the rest of the year. Her husband, R. M. Wilcox, is a clear-headed business man, of polished manners, kind and considerate to all whom he meets, one who, in short, is deservedly popular with all the friends of the happy couple. The summer house at Short Beach is especially charming. It is in full view of the Long Island Sound, with a fine beach in front, and a splendid sweep of country at the rear.
SHE IS A PRONOUNCED OPTIMIST.
As to "literary methods," Mrs. Wilcox has few suggestions to make, except to recommend hard work, conscientiously performed. She is untiring in her own efforts at rewriting, revising and polishing her productions, and cannot rest until every appearance of crudeness and carelessness is effaced. Her manuscripts are always neat, always carefully considered, and never prepared in undue haste. She believes that no writer can succeed who is a pessimist. She is, therefore, an optimist of the most pronounced type, and believes that all poems should be helpful not hurtful; full of hope, and not of despair; bright with faith, and not clouded by doubt.
"What is your view of the first duties of a young author?" she was asked, and replied:
"The first thing necessary for you to do is to find out your own motive in choosing a literary career. If you write as the young bird sings, you need no advice from me, for your thoughts will find their way out, as natural springs force their way through rocks, and nothing can hinder you. But if you have merely a well-defined literary ability and taste, you should consider carefully before undertaking the difficult task of authorship.
"An author should be able to instruct, entertain, guide or amuse his readers. Otherwise, he has no right to expect their attention, time or money. If it is merely a question of money, you would be wise to wait until you have a comfortable income, sufficient to maintain life during the first ten years of literary pursuits. Save in rare cases of remarkable genius, literature requires ten years of apprenticeship, at least, before yielding support to its followers. But be sure that you help, not harm, humanity. To the author, of all men, belongs the motto, 'Noblesse oblige.' "
DO NOT FEAR CRITICISM.
"Unless you are so absorbed in your work that you utterly forget the existence of critics or reviewers, you have no right to call yourself a genius. Talent thinks with fear and fawning of critics; genius does not remember that they exist. One bows at the shrine of existing public opinion, which is narrow with prejudice. The other bows at the shrine of art, which is as broad as the universe."
"How do you think a young author should proceed to obtain recognition?"
"In regard to the practical method of getting one's work before the public, I would beg that you would not send it to any well-known author, asking him or her to 'read, criticize, correct, and find a publisher for you.' If such a thought has entered your head, remember that it has entered the heads of five hundred other amateurs, and the poor author is crushed under an avalanche of badly-written manuscripts, not one of which he has time to read. No editor will accept what he does not want, through the advice of any author, however famous.
"Do not attempt to adopt the style of anyone else. Unless you feel that you can be yourself, do not try to be anybody. A poor original is better than a good imitation, in literature, if not in other things.
"Expect no aid from influential friends in any way. The more wholly you depend upon yourself, the sooner will you succeed.
"It is absolute nonsense to talk about 'influence' with editors or publishers. No one ever achieved even passing fame or success in literature through influence or 'friends at court.' An editor might be influenced to accept one article, but he would never give permanent patronage through any influence, however strong.
"As I receive so many hundreds of letters asking how I found my way into print, and through what influences, it may be pardonable for me to say a few words regarding my own experiences. In the first place, I never sent a manuscript to any human being in my life, to ask for an opinion or influence. I always send directly to the editors, and I am not aware that any influence was ever used in my behalf. I have often had an article refused by six editors and accepted by the seventh. An especially unfortunate manuscript of mine was once rejected by eight periodicals, and I was about to consign it to oblivion, when, at a last venture, I sent it to the ninth. A check of seventy-five dollars came to me by return mail, with an extremely complimentary letter from the editor, requesting more articles of a similar kind."
MERIT IS NOT ALWAYS DISCOVERED QUICKLY.
"Very few authors have lived to attain any degree of fame without receiving back their cherished yet unwelcome manuscripts from the hands of one or more unappreciative editors before they met the public eye.
"It is reported of 'David Harum' that six publishers rejected it previous to its final publication.
"Archibald Gunter's book, 'Mr. Barnes of New York,' went the rounds of the various publishing houses, only to be rejected by all. Then Mr. Gunter rose to the occasion, published it himself, and reaped a small fortune from its sales.
"Many a successful short story and poem passes through the 'reading' department of a half-dozen magazines and weeklies without having its merit discovered until a seventh editor accepts it.
"Poems of my own, which have later met much favor from the public, I have seen return with a dejected and dog-eared air, from eight or nine offices, whither they had gone forth, like Noah's dove, seeking for a resting place. A charming bit of verse, written by a friend of mine, took twenty-one journeys from the maternal hand to the editor's table before it found an appreciative purchaser.
"If the young writer will stop and consider that each editor has his own individual ideas of what he wants, both in verse and prose, and that, just as no two faces are alike, no two minds run in the same groove, he may be hopeful for the ultimate acceptance of the darling of his brain, if he will persevere. Of course, this refers to a writer who possesses actual talent."
EDITORS ARE ANXIOUS FOR GOOD ARTICLES.
"No more absurd idea ever existed than that of the efficacy of 'influence' in literature. An editor will buy what he thinks his readers will appreciate. He will not buy anything which he feels will fall dead on his audience. He may purchase one possibly two, manuscripts, to oblige a friend, but it will end there; and one or two manuscripts, so purchased, can never make name or fame for their author.
"It would be just as reasonable to talk about 'influence with a dry-goods merchant, and to expect to make him purchase undesired goods from a manufacturer for friendship's sake, as to think an editor can be influenced by a friend at court.
"Editors are employed by the owners of periodicals to select and publish material which will render the periodical a paying concern. The editor who does not do this may lose his position and his salary.
"He is on the watch for attractive matter and desires to find new material. He is delighted when he discovers a new poet or author. Being mortal, and having but one mind, he can judge of the poems and stories sent to him only from an individual standpoint.
"He not infrequently lets genius slip through his hands, and accepts paste imitations. But he does it ignorantly, or carelessly, not willfully; or he may have in his collection of accepted manuscripts something similar, which would prevent his use of a poem or sketch at that particular juncture.
"The reasons why an editor declines a good manuscript are innumerable. It is impossible for him to explain them to each applicant for his favor. Nothing indicates the crudity of an author more than a request to criticize a manuscript and point out its defects; for frequently the very first verse or the very first page of a poem or romance decides its fate, and the editor returns it without reading further. Sometimes its length prevents any possibility of its being used in that particular periodical, while it might be just what another magazine would desire."
PERSEVERANCE COUNTS IN AUTHORSHIP.
"The young writer who decides absolutely upon a literary career, and is confident of his mental equipment for his profession, should read all the current periodicals, magazines, and weeklies, American and English, and observe what style of literature they publish. Then he should make a list of them, and send his poem or his narrative first to the magazine which he feels it is best suited for; if it returns, let him proceed to speed it forth again, after giving it another reading; and so on, until it has finished the circuit of, perhaps, fifty periodicals. This habit of perseverance will be worth something, even if he never sells that manuscript.
"If he is still confident of his powers, let him write in another vein, and proceed in the same manner. This persistency, backed by talent, must win in the long run.
"If he feels he wants criticism, let him apply to some of the literary bureaus which make a business of criticism and revision.
"Very few authors have time to give to this work, nor are they, as a rule, the best judges of the merit of another writer's productions. After all, the secret of a writer's success lies within him. If he is well equipped, he will win, but not otherwise."
WILL-POWER
There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent, or hinder, or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gift counts for little; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves,
Let the fool prate of Luck! The fortunate
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
Whose slightest action or inaction serves
The one great aim.
Why, even death stands still
And waits, an hour, sometimes, for such a will!
I. Custer and other Inspirational Poems
The World's Need
So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind, Is all the sad world needs.
High Noon
Time's finger on the dial of my life Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark, Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light. Long life is sadder than an early death. We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink How brief the past, the future still more brief, Calls on to action, action! Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Have I done nobly? Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame. Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn. Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls So pity may shine through them.
Looking back, My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones That led the way to knowledge of the truth And made me value virtue; sorrows shine In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years, Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth, Out to the western sky still bright with noon, I feel well spurred and booted for the strife That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men and with myself, Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon, Three things I learned, three things of precious worth To guide and help me down the western slope. I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save. To pray for courage to receive what comes, Knowing what comes to be divinely sent. To toil for universal good, since thus And only thus can good come unto me. To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have To those who have not, this alone is gain.
Transformation
She waited in a rose-hued room; A wanton-hearted creature she, But beautiful and bright to see As some great orchid just in bloom.
Upon wide cushions stretched at ease She lolled in garments filmy fine, Which but enhanced each rounded line; A living picture, framed to please.
A bold electric eye of light Leered through its ruddy screen of lace And feasted on her form and face As some wine-crimsoned roué might.
From wall and niche, nude nymph beguiled Fair goddesses of world-wide fame, But Psyche's self was put to shame By one who from the cushions smiled.
Exotic blossoms from a vase Their sweet narcotic breath exhaled; The lights, the objects round her paled— She lost the sense of time and place.
She seemed to float upon the air, Untrammeled, unrestricted, free; And rising from a vapory sea She saw a form divinely fair.
A beauteous being in whose face Shone all things sweet and true and good. The innocence of maidenhood, The motherhood of all the race.
The warmth which comes from heavenly fire, The strength which leads the weaker man To climb to God's Eternal plan And conquer and control desire.
She shook as with a mighty awe, For, gazing on this shape which stood Embodying all true womanhood, She knew it was herself she saw.
She woke as from a dream. But when The laughing lover, light and bold Came with his talk of wine and gold He gazed, grew silent, gazed again;
Then turned abashed from those calm eyes Where lurked no more the lure to sin. Her higher self had entered in, Her path led now to Paradise.
Thought-Magnets
With each strong thought, with every earnest longing For aught thou deemest needful to thy soul, Invisible vast forces are set thronging Between thee and that goal.
'Tis only when some hidden weakness alters And changes thy desire, or makes it less, That this mysterious army ever falters Or stops short of success.
Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel; And its attainment hangs but on the measure Of what thy soul can feel.
Smiles
Smile a little, smile a little, As you go along, Not alone when life is pleasant, But when things go wrong. Care delights to see you frowning, Loves to hear you sigh; Turn a smiling face upon her, Quick the dame will fly.
Smile a little, smile a little, All along the road; Every life must have its burden, Every heart its load. Why sit down in gloom and darkness, With your grief to sup? As you drink Fate's bitter tonic, Smile across the cup.
Smile upon the troubled pilgrims Whom you pass and meet; Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms Oft for weary feet. Do not make the way seem harder By a sullen face, Smile a little, smile a little, Brighten up the place.
Smile upon your undone labor; Not for one who grieves O'er his task, waits wealth or glory; He who smiles achieves. Though you meet with loss and sorrow In the passing years, Smile a little, smile a little, Even through your tears.
The Undiscovered Country
Man has explored all countries and all lands, And made his own the secrets of each clime. Now, ere the world has fully reached its prime, The oval earth lies compassed with steel bands; The seas are slaves to ships that touch all strands, And even the haughty elements sublime And bold, yield him their secrets for all time, And speed like lackeys forth at his commands.
Still, though he search from shore to distant shore, And no strange realms, no unlocated plains Are left for his attainment and control, Yet is there one more kingdom to explore. Go, know thyself, O man! there yet remains The undiscovered country of thy soul!
The Universal Route
As we journey along, with a laugh and a song, We see, on youth's flower-decked slope, Like a beacon of light, shining fair on the sight, The beautiful Station of Hope.
But the wheels of old Time roll along as we climb, And our youth speeds away on the years; And with hearts that are numb with life's sorrows we come To the mist-covered Station of Tears.
Still onward we pass, where the milestones, alas! Are the tombs of our dead, to the West, Where glitters and gleams, in the dying sunbeams, The sweet, silent Station of Rest.
All rest is but change, and no grave can estrange The soul from its Parent above; And, scorning the rod, it soars back to its God, To the limitless City of Love.
Earthly Pride
How baseless is the mightiest earthly pride, The diamond is but charcoal purified, The lordliest pearl that decks a monarch's breast Is but an insect's sepulchre at best.
Unanswered Prayers
Like some school master, kind in being stern, Who hears the children crying o'er their slates And calling, "Help me master!" yet helps not, Since in his silence and refusal lies Their self-development, so God abides Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf To any cry sent up from earnest hearts, He hears and strengthens when He must deny. He sees us weeping over life's hard sums But should He give the key and dry our tears What would it profit us when school were done And not one lesson mastered?
What a world Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills As lie in human hearts. Should our desires Voiced one by one in prayer ascend to God And come back as events shaped to our wish What chaos would result!
In my fierce youth I sighed out breath enough to move a fleet Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons Which were denied; and that denial bends My knee to prayers of gratitude each day Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers I rose alway regirded for the strife And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart, That which thou pleadest for may not be given But in the lofty altitude where souls Who supplicate God's grace are lifted there Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot Which is not elsewhere found.
Thanksgiving
We walk on starry fields of white And do not see the daisies; For blessings common in our sight We rarely offer praises. We sigh for some supreme delight To crown our lives with splendor, And quite ignore our daily store Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way Upon our thought and feeling. They hang about us all the day, Our time from pleasure stealing. So unobtrusive many a joy We pass by and forget it, But worry strives to own our lives And conquers if we let it.
There's not a day in all the year But holds some hidden pleasure, And looking back, joys oft appear To brim the past's wide measure. But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labor near us. We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
He said he loved me! Then he called my hair Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow, My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow; And swore my round, full throat would bring despair To Venus or to Psyche.
Time and care Will fade these locks; the merry god, I trow, Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow. How will it be when I, no longer fair, Plead for his kiss with cheeks whence long ago The early snowflakes melted quite away, The rose leaf died—and in whose sallow clay Lie the deep sunken tracks of life's gaunt crow?
When this full throat shall wattle fold on fold, Like some ripe peach left drying on a wall, Or like a spent accordion, when all Its music has exhaled—will love grow cold?
The Kettle
There's many a house of grandeur, With turret, tower and dome, That knows not peace or comfort, And does not prove a home.Ido not ask for splendor To crown my daily lot, But this I ask—a kitchen Where the kettle's always hot.
If things are not all ship-shape, I do not fume or fret, A little clean disorder Does not my nerves upset. But one thing is essential, Or seems so to my thought, And that's a tidy kitchen Where the kettle's always hot.
In my Aunt Hattie's household, Though skies outside are drear, Though times are dark and troubled, You'll always find good cheer. And in her quaint old kitchen— The very homiest spot— The kettle's always singing, The water's always hot.
And if you have a headache, Whate'er the hour may be, There is no tedious waiting To get your cup of tea. I don't know how she does it— Some magic she has caught— For the kitchen's cool in summer, Yet the kettle's always hot.
Oh, there's naught else so dreary In household kingdom found As a cold and sullen kettle That does not make a sound. And I think that love is lacking In the hearts in such a spot, Or the kettle would be singing And the water would be hot.
Contrasts
I see the tall church steeples, They reach so far, so far, But the eyes of my heart see the world's great mart, Where the starving people are.
I hear the church bells ringing Their chimes on the morning air; But my soul's sad ear is hurt to hear The poor man's cry of despair.
Thicker and thicker the churches, Nearer and nearer the sky But alack for their creeds while the poor man's needs Grow deeper as years roll by.
Thy Ship
Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored The priceless riches of all climes and lands, Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport, And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?
Thine is that ship; and in its depths concealed Lies all the wealth of this vast universe— Yea, lies some part of God's omnipotence The legacy divine of every soul. Thy will, O man, thy will is that great ship, And yet behold it drifting here and there— One moment lying motionless in port, Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung,
Then drying on the sands, and yet again Sent forth on idle quests to no-man's land To carry nothing and to nothing bring; Till worn and fretted by the aimless strife And buffeted by vacillating winds It founders on a rock, or springs aleak With all its unused treasures in the hold.
Go save thy ship, thou sluggard; take the wheel And steer to knowledge, glory and success. Great mariners have made the pathway plain For thee to follow; hold thou to the course Of Concentration Channel, and all things Shall come in answer to thy swerveless wish As comes the needle to the magnet's call, Or sunlight to the prisoned blade of grass That yearns all winter for the kiss of spring.
The Tryst
Just when all hope had perished in my soul, And balked desire made havoc with my mind, My cruel Ladye suddenly grew kind, And sent these gracious words upon a scroll: "When knowing Night her dusky scarf has tied Across the bold, intrusive eyes of day, Come as a glad, triumphant lover may, No longer fearing that he be denied."
I read her letter for the hundredth time, And for the hundredth time my gladdened sight Blurred with the rapture of my vast delight, And swooned upon the page. I caught the chime Of far off bells, and at each silver note My heart on tiptoe pressed its eager ear Against my breast; it was such joy to hear The tolling of the hour of which she wrote.
The curious day still lingered in the skies And watched me as I hastened to the tryst. And back, beyond great clouds of amethyst, I saw the Night's soft, reassuring eyes. "Oh, Night," I cried, "dear Love's considerate friend, Haste from the far, dim valleys of the west, Rock the sad striving earth to quiet rest, And bid the day's insistent vigil end."
Down brooding streets, and past the harbored ships The Night's young handmaid, Twilight, walked with me. A spent moon leaned inertly o'er the sea; A few, pale, phantom stars were in eclipse. There was the house, My Ladye's sea-girt bower All draped in gloom, save for one taper's glow, Which lit the path, where willing feet would go. There was the house, and this the promised hour.
The tide was out; and from the sea's salt path Rose amorous odors, filtering through the night And stirring all the senses with delight; Sweet perfumes left since Aphrodite's bath. Back in the wooded copse, a whip-poor-will Gave love's impassioned and impatient call. On pebbled sands I heard the waves kiss fall, And fall again, so hushed the hour and still.
Light was my knock upon the door, so light, And yet the sound seemed rude. My pulses beat So loud they drowned the coming of her feet The arrow of her taper pierced the gloom— The portal closed behind me. She was there— Love on her lips and yielding in her eyes And but the sea to hear our vows and sighs. She took my hand and led me up the stair.
Life
All in the dark we grope along, And if we go amiss We learn at least which path is wrong, And there is gain in this.
We do not always win the race, By only running right, We have to tread the mountain's base Before we reach its height.
The Christs alone no errors made; So often had they trod The paths that lead through light and shade, They had become as God.
As Krishna, Buddha, Christ again, They passed along the way, And left those mighty truths which men But dimly grasp to-day.
But he who loves himself the last And knows the use of pain, Though strewn with errors all his past, He surely shall attain.
Some souls there are that needs must taste Of wrong, ere choosing right; We should not call those years a waste Which led us to the light.
A Marine Etching
A yacht from its harbor ropes pulled free, And leaped like a steed o'er the race track blue, Then up behind her, the dust of the sea, A gray fog drifted, and hid her from view.
The Duel
Oh many a duel the world has seen That was bitter with hate, that was red with gore, But I sing of a duel by far more cruel Than ever by poet was sung before. It was waged by night, yea by day and by night, With never a pause or halt or rest, And the curious spot where this battle was fought Was the throbbing heart in a woman's breast.
There met two rivals in deadly strife, And they fought for this woman so pale and proud. One was a man in the prime of life, And one was a corpse in a moldy shroud; One wrapped in a sheet from his head to his feet, The other one clothed in worldly fashion; But a rival to dread is a man who is dead, If he has been loved in life with passion.
The living lover he battled with sighs, He strove for the woman with words that burned, While stiff and stark lay the corpse in the dark, And silently yearned and yearned and yearned. One spoke of the rapture that life still held For hearts that yielded to love's desire, And one through the cold grave's earthy mold Sent thoughts of a past that were fraught with fire.
The living lover seized hold of her hands— "You are mine," he cried, "and we will not part!" But she felt the clutch of the dead man's touch On the tense-drawn strings of her aching heart. Yet the touch was of ice, and she shrank with fear— Oh! the hands of the dead are cold, so cold— And warm were the arms that waited near To gather her close in their clinging fold.
And warm was the light in the living eyes, But the eyes of the dead, how they stare and stare! With sudden surrender she turned to the tender And passionate lover who wooed her there. Farewell to sorrow, hail, sweet to-morrow! The battle was over, the duel was done. They swooned in the blisses of love's fond kisses, And the dead man stared on in the dark alone.
"Love Thyself Last"
Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty To those who walk beside thee down life's road; Make glad their days by little acts of beauty, And help them bear the burden of earth's load.
Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger, Who staggers 'neath his sin and his despair; Go lend a hand, and lead him out of danger, To hights where he may see the world is fair.
Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee Are filled with Spirit Forces, strong and pure. And fervently, these faithful friends shall love thee: Keep thou thy watch o'er others and endure.
Love thyself last; and oh, such joy shall thrill thee, As never yet to selfish souls was given. Whate'er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee, And earth shall seem the ante-room of Heaven.
Love thyself last, and them shall grow in spirit To see, to hear, to know, and understand. The message of the stars, lo, thou shall hear it, And all God's joys shall be at thy command.
Christmas Fancies
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago. And etched on vacant places, Are half forgotten faces Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know— When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near, We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear, That continent Elysian Long vanished from our vision, Youth's lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear, Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth, The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth, And draws from youth's recesses Some memory it possesses, And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth, When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss. Not all the seers and sages With wisdom of the ages Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays, As passing years are proving for all of Time's sad ways. There lies a sting in pleasure, And fame gives shallow measure, And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days, For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes, And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes, Let Love, the world's beginning, End fear and hate and sinning; Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshiped in all climes When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.
The River
I am a river flowing from God's sea Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me; I cannot change it; mine alone the toil To keep the waters free from grime and soil. The winding river ends where it began; And when my life has compassed its brief span I must return to that mysterious source. So let me gather daily on my course The perfume from the blossoms as I pass, Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass, And carry down my current as I go Not common stones but precious gems to show; And tears (the holy water from sad eyes) Back to God's sea, from which all rivers rise Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts, Nor poison which the upas tree imparts. When over flowery vales I leap with joy, Let me not devastate them, nor destroy, But rather leave them fairer to the sight; Mine be the lot to comfort and delight. And if down awful chasms I needs must leap Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep On bravely to the end without one fear, Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near. Love sent me forth, to Love I go again, For Love is all, and over all. Amen.
Sorry
There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life's way. And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day. I'm sorry for the strong brave men, who shield the weak from harm, But who, in their own troubled hours find no protecting arm.
I am sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure's hand. I'm sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine, But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune's drear decline.
I'm sorry for the souls who build their own fame's funeral pyre, Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire. I'm sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin's defeat, But daily tread down fierce desire 'neath scorched and bleeding feet.
I'm sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion's strain, But I'm sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love's pain. Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave, For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o'er a grave.
I'm sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth, I'm sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth. I'm sorry for the suffering poor in life's great maelstrom hurled, In truth I'm sorry for them all who make this aching world.
But underneath whate'er seems sad and is not understood, I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good. And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text— The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.
The Old Wooden Cradle
Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside. No more to its motion o'er sleep's fairy ocean, Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.
No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker, Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed; No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging— The child of this era is put into bed.
Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle, It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm; When bees left the clover, when play-time was over, How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm.
How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling, How weird were the voices that whispered around, What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking, We floated away into slumber profound.
Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle, The babe of to-day does not know it by sight. When day leaves the border, with system and order, The child goes to bed and we put out the light.
I bow to Progression and ask no concession, Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past; So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber, The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.
Ambition's Trail
If all the end of this continuous striving Were simplyto attain, How poor would seem the planning and contriving
The mighty forces of mysterious space Are one by one subdued by lordly man. The awful lightning that for eons ran Their devastating and untrammeled race, Now bear his messages from place to place Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van; The lawless elements no longer can Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.
His bold feet scaling heights before untrod, Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf. And yet though ruler, king and demi-god He walks with his fierce passions uncontrolled The conquerer of all things—save himself.
The Tulip Bed At Greeley Square
You know that oasis, fresh and fair In the city desert, as Greeley square?
That bright triangle of scented bloom That lies surrounded by grime and gloom?
Right in the breast of the seething town Like a gleaming gem or a wanton's gown?
Ah, wonderful things that tulip bed Unto my listening soul has said.
Over the rattle and roar of the street I hear a chorus of voices sweet,
Day and night, when I pass that way, And these are the things the voices say:
"Here, in the heart of the foolish strife, We live a simple and natural life.
"Here, in the midst of the clash and din, We know what it is to be calm within.
"Here, environed by sin and shame, We do what we can with our pure white flame.
"We do what we can with our bloom and grace, To make the city a fairer place.
"It is well to be good though the world is vile, And so through the dust and the smoke we smile,
"We are but atoms in chaos tossed, Yet never a purpose for truth was lost."
Ah, many a sermon is uttered there By the bed of blossoms in Greeley square.
And he who listens and hears aright, Is better equipped for the world's hard fight.
