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diff --git a/6618-h/6618-h.htm b/6618-h/6618-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..52233a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/6618-h/6618-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3060 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Poems of Purpose, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems of Purpose, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems of Purpose + + +Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + + +Release Date: August 14, 2014 [eBook #6618] +[This file was first posted on December 31, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PURPOSE*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>POEMS OF PURPOSE</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ELLA WHEELER WILCOX</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">54 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT +GARDEN</span><br /> +LONDON<br /> +1919</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry"> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">A Good Sport</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">A Son Speaks</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page5">5</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Younger Born</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Happiness</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Seeking for Happiness</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Island of Endless Play</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The River of Sleep</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Things that Count</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Limitless</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">What They Saw</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Convention</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Protest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">A Bachelor to a Married Flirt</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Superwoman</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Certitude</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Compassion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Three Souls</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">When Love is Lost</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Occupation</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Valley of Fear</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">What would it be?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry"><a name="pagevi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vi</span>America</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">War Mothers</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">A Holiday</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Undertone</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Gypsying</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Song of the Road</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Faith we Need</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Price he Paid</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Divorced</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Revealing Angels</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Well-born</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Sisters of Mine</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Answer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Graduates</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Silent Tragedy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Trinity</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page99">99</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Unwed Mother to the Wife</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Father and Son</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Husks</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">Meditations</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">The Traveller</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">What Have You Done?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>N.B.—<i>The only volumes of my Poems issued with +my approval in the British Empire are published by Messrs. Gay +& Hancock</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>ELLA WHEELER WILCOX</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>A GOOD +SPORT</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">was</span> a little lad, +and the older boys called to me from the pier:<br /> +They called to me: ‘Be a sport: be a sport! Leap in +and swim!’<br /> +I leaped in and swam, though I had never been taught a stroke.<br +/> +Then I was made a hero, and they all shouted:<br /> + ‘Well done! Well done,<br /> +Brave boy, you are a sport, a good sport!’<br /> +And I was very glad.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now I wish I had learned to swim the right +way,<br /> + Or had never learned at all.<br /> +Now I regret that day,<br /> + For it led to my fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was a youth, and I heard the older men +talking of the road to wealth;<br /> +They talked of bulls and bears, of buying on margins,<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>And they +said, ‘Be a sport, my boy, plunge in and win or lose it +all!<br /> +It is the only way to fortune.’<br /> +So I plunged in and won; and the older men patted me on the +back,<br /> +And they said, ‘You are a sport, my boy, a good +sport!’<br /> +And I was very glad.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now I wish I had lost all I ventured on +that day—<br /> + Yes, wish I had lost it all.<br /> +For it was the wrong way,<br /> + And pushed me to my fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was a young man, and the gay world called me +to come;<br /> +Gay women and gay men called to me, crying:<br /> + ‘Be a sport; be a good sport!<br /> +Fill our glasses and let us fill yours.<br /> +We are young but once; let us dance and sing,<br /> +And drive the dull hours of night until they stand at bay<br /> +Against the shining bayonets of day.’<br /> +So I filled my glass, and I filled their glasses, over and over +again,<br /> +<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>And I sang +and danced and drank, and drank and danced and sang,<br /> +And I heard them cry, ‘He is a sport, a good +sport!’<br /> +As they held their glasses out to be filled again.<br /> +And I was very glad.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh the madness of youth and song and dance and +wine,<br /> +Of woman’s eyes and lips, when the night dies in the arms +of dawn!<br /> +And now I wish I had not gone that way.<br /> +Now I wish I had not heard them say,<br /> +‘He is a sport, a good sport!’<br /> +For I am old who should be young.<br /> +The splendid vigour of my youth I flung<br /> +Under the feet of a mad, unthinking throng.<br /> +My strength went out with wine and dance and song;<br /> +Unto the winds of earth I tossed like chaff,<br /> +With idle jest and laugh,<br /> +The pride of splendid manhood, all its wealth<br /> +Of unused power and health—<br /> +Its dream of looking into some pure girl’s eyes<br /> +And finding there its earthly paradise—<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>Its hope of +virile children free from blight—<br /> +Its thoughts of climbing to some noble height<br /> +Of great achievement—all these gifts divine<br /> +I cast away for song and dance and wine.<br /> +Oh, I have been a sport, a good sport;<br /> +But I am very sad.</p> +<h2><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>A SON +SPEAKS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mother</span>, sit down, +for I have much to say<br /> +Anent this widespread ever-growing theme<br /> +Of woman and her virtues and her rights.</p> +<p class="poetry">I left you for the large, loud world of men,<br +/> +When I had lived one little score of years.<br /> +I judged all women by you, and my heart<br /> +Was filled with high esteem and reverence<br /> +For your angelic sex; and for the wives,<br /> +The sisters, daughters, mothers of my friends<br /> +I held but holy thoughts. To fallen stars<br /> +(Of whom you told me in our last sweet talk,<br /> +Warning me of the dangers in my path)<br /> +I gave wide pity as you bade me to,<br /> +Saying their sins harked back to my base sex.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>Now listen, mother mine: Ten years have passed<br /> +Since that clean-minded and pure-bodied youth,<br /> +Thinking to write his name upon the stars,<br /> +Went from your presence. He returns to you<br /> +Fallen from his altitude of thought,<br /> +Hiding deep scars of sins upon his soul,<br /> +His fair illusions shattered and destroyed.<br /> +And would you know the story of his fall?</p> +<p class="poetry">He sat beside a good man’s honoured +wife<br /> +At her own table. She was beautiful<br /> +As woods in early autumn. Full of soft<br /> +And subtle witcheries of voice and look—<br /> +His senior, both in knowledge and in years.</p> +<p class="poetry">The boyish admiration of his glance<br /> +Was white as April sunlight when it falls<br /> +Upon a blooming tree, until she leaned<br /> +So close her rounded body sent quick thrills<br /> +Along his nerves. He thought it accident,<br /> +And moved a little; soon she leaned again.<br /> +The half-hid beauties of her heaving breast<br /> +Rising and falling under scented lace,<br /> +The teasing tendrils of her fragrant hair,<br /> +With intermittent touches on his cheek,<br /> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>Changed the +boy’s interest to a man’s desire.<br /> +She saw that first young madness in his eyes<br /> +And smiled and fanned the flame. That was his fall;<br /> +And as some mangled fly may crawl away<br /> +And leave his wings behind him in the web,<br /> +So were his wings of faith in womanhood<br /> +Left in the meshes of her sensuous net.</p> +<p class="poetry">The youth, forced into sudden manhood, went<br +/> +Seeking the lost ideal of his dreams.<br /> +He met, in churches and in drawing-rooms,<br /> +Women who wore the mask of innocence<br /> +And basked in public favour, yet who seemed<br /> +To find their pleasure playing with men’s hearts,<br /> +As children play with loaded guns. He heard<br /> +(Until the tale fell dull upon his ears)<br /> +The unsolicited complaints of wives<br /> +And mothers all unsatisfied with life,<br /> +While crowned with every blessing earth can give<br /> +Longing for God knows what to bring content,<br /> +And openly or with appealing look<br /> +Asking for sympathy. (The first blind step<br /> +That leads from wifely honour down to shame,<br /> +Is ofttimes hid with flowers of sympathy.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>He saw proud women who would flush and pale<br /> +With sense of outraged modesty if one<br /> +Spoke of the ancient sin before them, bare<br /> +To all men’s sight, or flimsily conceal<br /> +By veils that bid adventurous eyes proceed,<br /> +Charms meant alone for lover and for child.<br /> +He saw chaste virgins tempt and tantalise,<br /> +Lure and deny, invite—and then refuse,<br /> +And drive men forth half crazed to wantons’ arms.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mother, you taught me there were but two +kinds<br /> +Of women in the world—the good and bad.<br /> +But you have been too sheltered in the safe,<br /> +Old-fashioned sweetness of your quiet life,<br /> +To know how women of these modern days<br /> +Make licence of their new-found liberty.<br /> +Why, I have been more tempted and more shocked<br /> +By belles and beauties in the social whirl,<br /> +By trusted wives and mothers in their homes,<br /> +Than by the women of the underworld<br /> +Who sell their favours. Do you think me mad?<br /> +No, mother; I am sane, but very sad.</p> +<p class="poetry">I miss my boyhood’s faith in +woman’s worth—<br /> +Torn from my heart, by ‘good folks’ of the earth.</p> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>THE +YOUNGER BORN</h2> +<p>The modern English-speaking young girl is the astonishment of +the world and the despair of the older generation. Nothing +like her has ever been seen or heard before. Alike in +drawing-rooms and the amusement places of the people, she defies +conventions in dress, speech, and conduct. She is bold, yet +not immoral. She is immodest, yet she is chaste. She +has no ideals, yet she is kind and generous. She is an +anomaly and a paradox.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>We</i></span><i> are the +little daughters of Time and the World his wife</i>,<br /> +<i>We are not like the children</i>, <i>born in their younger +life</i>,<br /> +<i>We are marred with our mother’s follies and torn with +our father’s strife</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are the little daughters of the modern +world,<br /> +And Time, her spouse.<br /> +She has brought many children to our father’s house<br /> +Before we came, when both our parents were content</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>With simple pleasures and with quiet homely ways.<br /> + Modest and mild<br /> +Were the fair daughters born to them in those fair days,<br /> + Modest and mild.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>But Father Time grew restless and longed for +a swifter pace</i>,<br /> +<i>And our mother pushed out beside him at the cost of her tender +grace</i>,<br /> +<i>And life was no more living but just a headlong race</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">And we are wild—<br /> +Yea, wild are we, the younger born of the World<br /> + Into life’s vortex hurled.<br /> +With the milk of our mother’s breast<br /> +We drank her own unrest,<br /> + And we learned our speech from Time<br /> + Who scoffs at the things sublime.<br /> +Time and the World have hurried so<br /> +They could not help their younger born to grow;<br /> +We only follow, follow where they go.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span><i>They left their high ideals behind them as they +ran</i>;<br /> +<i>There was but one goal</i>, <i>pleasure</i>, <i>for Woman or +for Man</i>,<br /> +<i>And they robbed the nights of slumber to lengthen the +days’ brief span</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are the demi-virgins of the modern day;<br +/> + All evil on the earth is known to us in thought,<br +/> + But yet we do it not.<br /> + We bare our beauteous bodies to the gaze of men,<br +/> + We lure them, tempt them, lead them on, and then<br +/> +Lightly we turn away.<br /> +By strong compelling passion we are never stirred;<br /> +To us it is a word—<br /> +A word much used when tragic tales are told;<br /> +We are the younger born, yet we are very old<br /> +In understanding, and our knowledge makes us bold.<br /> +Boldly we look at life,<br /> +Loving its stress and strife,<br /> +And hating all conventions that may mean restraint,<br /> +Yet shunning sin’s black taint.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>We know wine’s taste;<br /> + And the young-maiden bloom and sweetness of our +lips<br /> + Is often in eclipse<br /> + Under the brown weed’s stain.<br /> +Yet we are chaste;<br /> + We have no large capacity for joy or pain,<br /> +But an insatiable appetite for pleasure.<br /> +We have no use for leisure<br /> +And never learned the meaning of that word +‘repose.’<br /> +Life as it goes<br /> +Must spell excitement for us, be the cost what may.<br /> +Speeding along the way,</p> +<p class="poetry">We ofttimes pause to do some generous little +deed,<br /> +And fill the cup of need;<br /> +For we are kind at heart,<br /> + Though with less heart than head,<br /> + Unmoral, not immoral, when the worst is said;<br /> +We are the product of the modern day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span><i>We are the little daughters of Time and the World his +wife</i>,<br /> +<i>We are not like the children</i>, <i>born in their younger +life</i>,<br /> +<i>We are marred with our mother’s follies and torn with +our father’s strife</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>HAPPINESS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>There</i></span><i> are +so many little things that make life beautiful</i>.<br /> +I can recall a day in early youth when I was longing for +happiness.<br /> +Toward the western hills I gazed, watching for its approach.<br +/> +The hills lay between me and the setting sun, and over them led a +highway.<br /> +When some traveller crossed the hill, always a fine grey dust +rose cloudless against the sky.<br /> +The traveller I could not distinguish, but the dust-cloud I could +see.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the dust-cloud seemed formed of hopes and +possibilities—each speck an embryo event.<br /> +At sunset, when the skies were fair, the dust-cloud grew radiant +and shone with visions.<br /> +<a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>The +happiness for which I waited came not to me adown that western +slope,<br /> +But now I can recall the cloud of golden dust, the sunset, and +the highway leading over the hill,<br /> +The wonderful hope and expectancy of my heart, the visions of +youth in my eyes; and I know this was happiness.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>There are so many little things that make +life beautiful</i>.<br /> +I can recall another day when I rebelled at life’s +monotony.<br /> +Everywhere about me was the commonplace; and nothing seemed to +happen.<br /> +Each day was like its yesterday, and to-morrow gave no promise of +change.<br /> +My young heart rose rebellious in my breast; and I ran aimlessly +into the sunlight—the glowing sunlight of June.<br /> +I sent out a dumb cry to Fate, demanding larger joys and more +delight.<br /> +I ran blindly into a field of blooming clover.<br /> +It was breast-high, and billowed about me like rose-red waves of +a fragrant sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>The bees were singing above it; and their little brown +bodies were loaded with honey-dew, extracted from the clover +blossoms.<br /> +The sun reeled in the heavens dizzy with its own splendour.<br /> +The day went into night, without bringing any new event to change +my life.<br /> +But now I recall the field of blooming clover, and the +honey-laden bees, the glorious June sunlight, and the passion of +youth in my heart; and I know that was happiness.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>There are so many little things that make +life beautiful</i>.<br /> +Yesterday a failure stared me in the face, where I had thought to +welcome proud success.<br /> +There was no radiant cloud of dust against the western sky, and +no clover field lying fragrant under mid-June suns,<br /> +Neither was youth with me any more.</p> +<p class="poetry">But under the vines that clung against my +walls, a flock of birds sought shelter just at twilight;<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>And, +standing at my casement, I could hear the twitter of their voices +and the soft, sweet flutter of their wings.<br /> +Then over me there fell a sense of peace and calm, and love for +all created things, and trust illimitable.</p> +<p class="poetry">And that I knew was happiness.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>There are so many little things to make life +beautiful</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>SEEKING FOR HAPPINESS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Seeking</span> for +happiness we must go slowly;<br /> + The road leads not down avenues of haste;<br /> +But often gently winds through by ways lowly,<br /> + Whose hidden pleasures are serene and chaste<br /> +Seeking for happiness we must take heed<br /> +Of simple joys that are not found in speed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Eager for noon-time’s large effulgent +splendour,<br /> + Too oft we miss the beauty of the dawn,<br /> +Which tiptoes by us, evanescent, tender,<br /> + Its pure delights unrecognised till gone.<br /> +Seeking for happiness we needs must care<br /> +For all the little things that make life fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreaming of future pleasures and +achievements<br /> + We must not let to-day starve at our door;<br /> +Nor wait till after losses and bereavements<br /> + Before we count the riches in our store.<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Seeking +for happiness we must prize this—<br /> +Not what will be, or was, but that which <i>is</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">In simple pathways hand in hand with duty<br /> + (With faith and love, too, ever at her side),<br /> +May happiness be met in all her beauty<br /> + The while we search for her both far and wide.<br /> +Seeking for happiness we find the way<br /> +Doing the things we ought to do each day.</p> +<h2><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>THE +ISLAND OF ENDLESS PLAY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Said</span> Willie to Tom, +‘Let us hie away<br /> +To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.</p> +<p class="poetry">It lies off the border of “No School +Land,”<br /> +And abounds with pleasure, I understand.</p> +<p class="poetry">There boys go swimming whenever they please<br +/> +In a lovely river right under the trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">And marbles are free, so you need not buy;<br +/> +And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">We sail down the Isthmus of Idle +Delight—<br /> +We sail and we sail for a day and a night.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then, if favoured by billows and breeze,<br +/> +We land in the Harbour of Do-as-You-Please.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>And there lies the Island of Endless Play,<br /> +With no one to say to us, Must, or Nay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Books are not known in that land so fair,<br /> +Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hurrah for the Island, so glad and free,<br /> +That is the country for you and me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So away went Willie and Tom together<br /> +On a pleasure boat, in the lazy weather,<br /> +And they sailed in the teeth of a friendly breeze<br /> +Right into the harbour of ‘Do-as-You-Please.’<br /> +Where boats and tackle and marbles and kites<br /> +Were waiting them there in this Land of Delights.<br /> +They dwelt on the Island of Endless Play<br /> +For five long years; then one sad day<br /> +A strange, dark ship sailed up to the strand,<br /> +And ‘Ho! for the voyage to Stupid Land,’<br /> +The captain cried, with a terrible noise,<br /> +As he seized the frightened and struggling boys<br /> +And threw them into the dark ship’s hold;<br /> +And off and away sailed the captain bold.<br /> +They vainly begged him to let them out,<br /> +He answered only with scoff and shout.<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>‘Boys that don’t study or work,’ said +he,<br /> +‘Must sail one day down the Ignorant Sea<br /> +To Stupid Land by the No-Book Strait,<br /> +With Captain Time on the Pitiless Fate.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He let out the sails and away went the three<br +/> +Over the waters of Ignorant Sea,<br /> +Out and away to Stupid Land;<br /> +And they live there yet, I understand.<br /> +And there’s where every one goes, they say,<br /> +Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.</p> +<h2><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>THE +RIVER OF SLEEP</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> are curious +isles in the River of Sleep,<br /> + Curious isles without number.<br /> +We’ll visit them all as we leisurely creep<br /> +Down the winding stream whose current is deep,<br /> + In our beautiful barge of Slumber.</p> +<p class="poetry">The very first isle in this wonderful stream<br +/> + Quite close to the shore is lying,<br /> +And after a supper of cakes and cream<br /> +We come to the Night-Mare-Isle with a scream,<br /> + And hurry away from it crying.</p> +<p class="poetry">And next is the Island-of-Lullaby,<br /> + And every one there rejoices.<br /> +The winds are only a perfumed sigh,<br /> +And the birds that sing in the treetops try<br /> + To imitate Mothers’ voices.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>A little beyond is the Isle-of-Dreams;<br /> + Oh, that is the place to be straying.<br /> +Everything there is just as it seems;<br /> +Dolls are real and sunshine gleams,<br /> + And no one calls us from playing.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then we come to the drollest isle,<br /> + And the funniest sounds come pouring<br /> +Down from its borderlands once in a while,<br /> +And we lean o’er our barge and listen and smile;<br /> + For that is the Isle-of-Snoring.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the very last isle in the River of Sleep<br +/> + Is the sunshiny Isle-of-Waking.<br /> +We see it first with our eyes a-peep,<br /> +And we give a yawn—then away we leap,<br /> + The barge of Slumber forsaking.</p> +<h2><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>THE +THINGS THAT COUNT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span>, dear, it +isn’t the bold things,<br /> +Great deeds of valour and might,<br /> +That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the +day.<br /> +But it is the doing of old things,<br /> +Small acts that are just and right;<br /> +And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say;<br +/> +In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work +when you want to play—<br /> +Dear, those are the things that count.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, dear, it isn’t the new ways<br /> +Where the wonder-seekers crowd<br /> +That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our +own.<br /> +But it is keeping to true ways,<br /> +Though the music is not so loud,<br /> +<a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>And there +may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along alone;<br /> +In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a +song a groan—<br /> +Dear, these are the things that count.</p> +<p class="poetry">My dear, it isn’t the loud part<br /> +Of creeds that are pleasing to God,<br /> +Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant +shout or song.<br /> +But it is the beautiful proud part<br /> +Of walking with feet faith-shod;<br /> +And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things +go wrong;<br /> +In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope +when the way seems long—<br /> +Dear, these are the things that count.</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>LIMITLESS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> the motive is +right and the will is strong<br /> + There are no limits to human power;<br /> + For that great Force back of us moves along<br /> +And takes us with it, in trial’s hour.</p> +<p class="poetry">And whatever the height you yearn to climb,<br +/> + Though it never was trod by the foot of man,<br /> + And no matter how steep—I say you +<i>can</i>,<br /> +If you will be patient—and use your time.</p> +<h2><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>WHAT +THEY SAW</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>Sad man</i>, <i>Sad man</i>, <i>tell me</i>, +<i>pray</i>,<br /> +<i>What did you see to-day</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw the unloved and unhappy old, waiting for +slow delinquent death to come;<br /> +Pale little children toiling for the rich, in rooms where +sunlight is ashamed to go;<br /> +The awful almshouse, where the living dead rot slowly in their +hideous open graves.<br /> +And there were shameful things.<br /> +Soldiers and forts, and industries of death, and devil-ships, and +loud-winged devil-birds,<br /> +All bent on slaughter and destruction. These and yet more +shameful things mine eyes beheld:<br /> +Old men upon lascivious conquest bent, and young men living with +no thought of God,<br /> +And half-clothed women puffing at a weed, aping the vices of the +underworld,<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>Engrossed +in shallow pleasures and intent on being barren wives.<br /> +These things I saw.<br /> +(How God must loathe His earth!)</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Glad man</i>, <i>Glad man</i>, <i>tell +me</i>, <i>pray</i>.<br /> +<i>What did you see to-day</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw an agèd couple, in whose eyes<br +/> + Shone that deep light of mingled love and faith,<br +/> +Which makes the earth one room of paradise,<br /> + And leaves no sting in death.</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw vast regiments of children pour,<br /> +Rank after rank, out of the schoolroom door<br /> +By Progress mobilised. They seemed to say:<br /> +‘Let ignorance make way.<br /> +We are the heralds of a better day.’</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw the college and the church that stood<br +/> +For all things sane and good.<br /> +I saw God’s helpers in the shop and slum<br /> +Blazing a path for health and hope to come,<br /> +<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>And True +Religion, from the grave of creeds,<br /> +Springing to meet man’s needs.</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw great Science reverently stand<br /> +And listen for a sound from Border-land,<br /> + No longer arrogant with unbelief—<br /> + Holding itself aloof—<br /> +But drawing near, and searching high and low<br /> + For that complete and all-convincing proof<br /> + Which shall permit its voice to comfort grief,<br /> +Saying, ‘We know.’</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw fair women in their radiance rise<br /> + And trample old traditions in the dust.<br /> +Looking in their clear eyes,<br /> +I seemed to hear these words as from the skies:<br /> + ‘He who would father our sweet children +must<br /> + Be worthy of the trust.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Against the rosy dawn, I saw unfurled<br /> + The banner of the race we usher in,<br /> +The supermen and women of the world,<br /> + Who make no code of sex to cover sin;<br /> +Before they till the soil of parenthood,<br /> +They look to it that seed and soil are good.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>And I saw, too, that old, old sight, and best—<br +/> +Pure mothers, with dear babies at the breast.<br /> +These things I saw.<br /> +(How God must love His earth!)</p> +<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>THE +CONVENTION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">From</span> the Queen Bee +mother, the mother Beast, and the mother Fowl in the fen,<br /> +A call went up to the human world, to Woman, the mother of +men.<br /> +The call said, ‘Come: for we, the dumb, are given speech +for a day,<br /> +And the things we have thought for a thousand years we are going +at last to say.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Much they marvelled, these women of earth, at +the strange and curious call,<br /> +And some of them laughed, and some of them sneered, but they +answered it one and all,<br /> +For they wanted to hear what never before was heard since the +world began—<br /> +The spoken word of Beast and Bird, and the message it held for +Man.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>‘A plea for shelter,’ the woman said, +‘or food in the wintry weathers,<br /> +Or a foolish request that we be dressed without their furs or +feathers.<br /> +We will do what we can for the poor dumb things, but they must be +sensible.’ Then<br /> +The meeting was called and a she-bear stood and voiced the +thought of the fen.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now this is the message we give to +you’ (it was thus the she-bear spake):<br /> +‘You the creatures of homes and shrines, and we of the wold +and brake,<br /> +We have no churches, we have no schools, and our minds you +question and doubt,<br /> +But we follow the laws which some Great Cause, alike for us all, +laid out.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘We eat and we drink to live; we shun the +things that poison and kill,<br /> +And we settle the problems of sex and birth by the law of the +female will,<br /> +<i>For never was one of us known by a male</i>, <i>or made to +mother its kind</i>,<br /> +<i>Unless there went from our minds consent</i> (<i>or from what +we call the mind</i>).</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>‘But you, the highest of all she-things, you gorge +yourselves at your feasts,<br /> +And you smoke and drink in a way we think would lower the +standard of beasts;<br /> +For a ring, a roof and a rag, you are bought by your males, to +have and to hold,<br /> +And you mate and you breed without nature’s need, while +your hearts and your bodies are cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘All unwanted your offspring come, or you +slay them before they are born;<br /> +And now the wild she-things of the earth have spoken and told +their scorn.<br /> +We have no mind and we have no souls, maybe as you +think—And still,<br /> +Never one of us ate or drank the things that poison and kill,<br +/> +<i>And never was one of us known by a male except by our wish and +will</i>.’</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>PROTEST</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> sit in silence +when we should protest<br /> +Makes cowards out of men. The human race<br /> +Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised<br /> +Against injustice, ignorance and lust<br /> +The Inquisition yet would serve the law<br /> +And guillotines decide our least disputes.<br /> +The few who dare must speak and speak again<br /> +To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,<br /> +No vested power in this great day and land<br /> +Can gag or throttle; Press and voice may cry<br /> +Loud disapproval of existing ills,<br /> +May criticise oppression and condemn<br /> +The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws<br /> +That let the children and child-bearers toil<br /> +To purchase ease for idle millionaires.<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>Therefore +do I protest against the boast<br /> +Of independence in this mighty land.<br /> +Call no chain strong which holds one rusted link,<br /> +Call no land free that holds one fettered slave.<br /> +Until the manacled, slim wrists of babes<br /> +Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee;<br /> +Until the Mother bears no burden save<br /> +The precious one beneath her heart; until<br /> +God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed<br /> +And given back to labour, let no man<br /> +Call this the Land of Freedom.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>A +BACHELOR TO A MARRIED FLIRT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">All</span> that a man can +say of woman’s charms,<br /> + Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told<br /> +To you a thousand times. Your perfect arms<br /> + (A replica from that lost Melos mould),<br /> +The fair firm crescents of your bosom (shown<br /> +With full intent to make their splendours known),</p> +<p class="poetry">Your eyes (that mask with innocence their +smile),<br /> + The (artful) artlessness of all your ways,<br /> +Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its guile—<br /> + All these have had my fond and frequent praise.<br +/> +And something more than praise to you I gave—<br /> +Something which made you know me as your slave.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet slaves, at times, grow mutinous and +rebel.<br /> + Here in this morning hour, from you apart,<br /> +The mood is on me to be frank and tell<br /> + The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart.<br +/> +<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>These +thoughts are bitter—thorny plants, that grew<br /> +Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those flowery praises led you to suppose<br /> + You were my benefactor. Well, in truth,<br /> +When lovely woman on dull man bestows<br /> + Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth,<br /> +He is her debtor. I am yours: and yet<br /> +<i>You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">I owe you for keen moments when you stirred<br +/> + My senses with your beauty, when your eyes<br /> +(Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word<br /> + Your curled lips uttered. You are worldly +wise,<br /> +And while you like to set men’s hearts on flame,<br /> +You take no risks in that old passion-game.</p> +<p class="poetry">The carnal, common self of dual me<br /> + Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.<br /> +(An egotist, man always thinks to be<br /> + The victor, if his patience but endures,<br /> +And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire,<br /> +Until the silly woman’s heart takes fire.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>But now it is the Higher Self who speaks—<br /> + The Me of me—the inner Man—the +real—<br /> +Whoever dreams his dream and ever seeks<br /> + To bring to earth his beautiful ideal.<br /> +That lifelong dream with all its promised joy<br /> +Your soft bedevilments have helped destroy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Woman, how can I hope for happy life<br /> + In days to come at my own nuptial hearth,<br /> +When you who bear the honoured name of wife<br /> + So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth?<br /> +Descending from your pedestal, alas!<br /> +You shake the pedestals of all your class.</p> +<p class="poetry">A vain, flirtatious wife is like a thief<br /> + Who breaks into the temple of men’s souls,<br +/> +And steals the golden vessels of belief,<br /> + The swinging censers, and the incense bowls.<br /> +All women seem less loyal and less true,<br /> +Less worthy of men’s faith since I met you.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>THE +SUPERWOMAN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> will the +superwoman be, of whom we sing—<br /> + She who is coming over the dim border<br /> + Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder<br /> +Is tidied up by Time? What will she bring<br /> + To make life better on tempestuous earth?<br /> + How will her worth<br /> +Be greater than her forbears? What new power<br /> +Within her being will burst into flower?</p> +<p class="poetry">She will bring beauty, not the transient +dower<br /> + Of adolescence which departs with youth—<br /> + But beauty based on knowledge of the truth<br /> +Of its eternal message and the source<br /> +Of all its potent force.<br /> + Her outer being by the inner thought<br /> + Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>She will bring virtue; but it will not be<br /> +The pale, white blossom of cold chastity<br /> + Which hides a barren heart. She will be +human—<br /> + Not saint or angel, but the superwoman—<br /> +Mother and mate and friend of superman.</p> +<p class="poetry">She will bring strength to aid the larger +Plan,<br /> + Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,<br +/> + Drawn from the Cosmic Mind—<br /> +Wisdom to act, strength to attain,<br /> +And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">She will bring that large virtue, +self-control,<br /> + And cherish it as her supremest treasure.<br /> + Not at the call of sense or for man’s +pleasure<br /> +Will she invite from space an embryo soul,<br /> + To live on earth again in mortal fashion,<br /> + Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.</p> +<p class="poetry">To motherhood she will bring common +sense—<br /> + That most uncommon virtue. She will give<br /> +Love that is more than she-wolf violence<br /> + (Which slaughters others that its own may live).</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>Love that will help each little tendril mind<br /> + To grow and climb;<br /> + Love that will know the lordliest use of Time<br /> +In training human egos to be kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">She will be formed to guide, but not to +lead—<br /> + Leaders are ever lonely—and her sphere<br /> +Will be that of the comrade and the mate,<br /> + Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,<br +/> +Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,<br /> +And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or +‘Wait.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And best of all, she will bring holy faith<br +/> +To penetrate the shadowy world of death,<br /> + And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,<br /> + That leads straight up to God.</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>CERTITUDE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a time +when I was confident<br /> +That God’s stupendous mystery of birth<br /> +Was mine to know. The wonder of it lent<br /> +New ecstasy and glory to the earth.<br /> +I heard no voice that uttered it aloud,<br /> +Nor was it written for me on a scroll;<br /> +Yet, if alone or in the common crowd,<br /> +I felt myself a consecrated soul.<br /> +My child leaped in its dark and silent room<br /> +And cried, ‘I am,’ though all unheard by men.<br /> +So leaps my spirit in the body’s gloom<br /> +And cries, ‘I live! I shall be born again.’<br +/> +Elate with certitude towards death I go,<br /> +Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>COMPASSION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> was a failure, +and one day he died.<br /> + Across the border of the mapless land<br /> +He found himself among a sad-eyed band<br /> +Of disappointed souls; they, too, had tried<br /> +And missed their purpose. With one voice they cried<br /> + Unto the shining Angel in command:<br /> + ‘Oh, lead us not before our Lord to stand,<br +/> +For we are failures, failures! Let us hide.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet on the Angel fared, until they stood<br /> + Before the Master. (Even His holy place<br /> +The hideous noises of the earth assailed.)<br /> +Christ reached His arms out to the trembling brood,<br /> + With God’s vast sorrow in His listening +face.<br /> +Come unto Me,’ He said; ‘I, too, have +failed.’</p> +<h2><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>LOVE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dreaming</span> of love, +the ardent mind of youth<br /> + Conceives it one with passion’s brief +delights,<br /> +With keen desire and rapture. But, in truth,<br /> + These are but milestones to sublime heights<br /> +After the highways, swept by strong emotions,<br /> + Where wild winds blow and blazing sun rays beat,<br +/> +After the billows of tempestuous oceans,<br /> + Fair mountain summits wait the lover’s +feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">The path is narrow, but the view is wide,<br /> + And beauteous the outlook towards the west<br /> +Happy are they who walk there side by side,<br /> + Leaving below the valleys of unrest,<br /> +And on the radiant altitudes above<br /> +Know the serene intensity of love.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>THREE +SOULS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Three</span> Souls there +were that reached the Heavenly Gate,<br /> +And gained permission of the Guard to wait.<br /> +Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin,<br /> +They did not ask or hope to enter in.<br /> +‘We loved one woman (thus their story ran);<br /> +We lost her, for she chose another man.<br /> +So great our love, it brought us to this door;<br /> +We only ask to see her face once more.<br /> +Then will we go to realms where we belong,<br /> +And pay our penalty for doing wrong.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And wert thou friends on +earth?’ (The Guard spake thus.)<br /> +‘Nay, we were foes; but Death made friends of us.<br /> +The dominating thought within each Soul<br /> +Brought us together, comrades, to this goal,<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>To see her +face, and in its radiance bask<br /> +For one great moment—that is all we ask.<br /> +And, having seen her, we must journey back<br /> +The path we came—a hard and dangerous track.’<br /> +‘Wait, then,’ the Angel said, ‘beside me +here,<br /> +But do not strive within God’s Gate to peer<br /> +Nor converse hold with Spirits clothed in light<br /> +Who pass this way; thou hast not earned the right.’</p> +<p class="poetry">They waited year on year. Then, like a +flame,<br /> +News of the woman’s death from earth-land came.<br /> +The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes<br /> +Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise.<br /> +The well-beloved face in vain they sought,<br /> +Until one day the Guardian Angel brought<br /> +A message to them. ‘She has gone,’ he said,<br +/> +‘Down to the lower regions of the dead;<br /> +Her chosen mate went first; so great her love<br /> +She has resigned the joys that wait above<br /> +To dwell with him, until perchance some day,<br /> +Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Silent, the lovers turned. The pitying +Guard<br /> +Said: ‘Stay (the while his hand the door unbarred),<br /> +<a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>There +waits for thee no darker grief or woe;<br /> +Enter the Gates, and all God’s glories know.<br /> +But to be ready for so great a bliss,<br /> +Pause for a moment and take heed of this:<br /> +The dearest treasure by each mortal lost<br /> +Lies yonder, when the Threshold has been crossed,<br /> +And thou shalt find within that Sacred Place<br /> +The shining wonder of her worshipped face.<br /> +All that is past is but a troubled dream;<br /> +Go forward now and claim the Fact Supreme.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then clothed like Angels, fitting their +estate,<br /> +Three Souls went singing, singing through God’s Gate.</p> +<h2><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>WHEN +LOVE IS LOST</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> love is lost, +the day sets towards the night,<br /> +Albeit the morning sun may still be bright,<br /> +And not one cloud-ship sails across the sky.<br /> +Yet from the places where it used to lie<br /> +Gone is the lustrous glory of the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">No splendour rests in any mountain height,<br +/> +No scene spreads fair and beauteous to the sight;<br /> +All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye<br /> + When love is lost.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love lends to life its grandeur and its +might;<br /> +Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight;<br /> +Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by,<br /> +And grief’s one happy thought is that we die.<br /> +Ah, what can recompense us for its flight<br /> + When love is lost?</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>OCCUPATION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> must in heaven +be many industries<br /> +And occupations, varied, infinite;<br /> +Or heaven could not be heaven.<br /> +What gracious tasks<br /> +The Mighty Maker of the universe<br /> +Can offer souls that have prepared on earth<br /> +By holding lovely thoughts and fair desires!</p> +<p class="poetry">Art thou a poet to whom words come not?<br /> +A dumb composer of unuttered sounds,<br /> +Ignored by fame and to the world unknown?<br /> +Thine may be, then, the mission to create<br /> +Immortal lyrics and immortal strains,<br /> +For stars to chant together as they swing<br /> +About the holy centre where God dwells.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hast thou the artist instinct with no skill<br +/> +To give it form or colour? Unto thee<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>It may be +given to paint upon the skies<br /> +Astounding dawns and sunsets, framed by seas<br /> +And mountains; or to fashion and adorn<br /> +New faces for sweet pansies and new dyes<br /> +To tint their velvet garments. Oftentimes<br /> +Methinks behind a beauteous flower I see,<br /> +Or in the tender glory of a dawn,<br /> +The presence of some spirit who has gone<br /> +Into the place of mystery, whose call,<br /> +Imperious and compelling, sounds for all<br /> +Or soon or late. So many have passed on—<br /> +So many with ambitions, hopes, and aims<br /> +Unrealised, who could not be content<br /> +As idle angels even in paradise.<br /> +The unknown Michelangelos who lived<br /> +With thoughts on beauty bent while chained to toil<br /> +That gave them only bread and burial—<br /> +These must find waiting in the world of space<br /> +The shining timbers of their splendid dreams,<br /> +Ready for shaping temples, shrines, and towers,<br /> +Where radiant hosts may congregate to raise<br /> +Their glad hosannas to the God Supreme.<br /> +And will there not be gardens glorious,<br /> +And mansions all embosomed among blooms,<br /> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>Where +heavenly children reach out loving arms<br /> +To lonely women who have been denied<br /> +On earth the longed-for boon of motherhood?</p> +<p class="poetry">Surely God has provided work to do<br /> +For souls like these, and for the weary, rest.</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>THE +VALLEY OF FEAR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the journey of +life, as we travel along<br /> +To the mystical goal that is hidden from sight,<br /> +You may stumble at times into Roadways of Wrong,<br /> +Not seeing the sign-board that points to the right.<br /> +Through caverns of sorrow your feet may be led,<br /> +Where the noon of the day will like midnight appear.<br /> +But no matter whither you wander or tread,<br /> +Keep out of the Valley of Fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Roadways of Wrong will wind out into +light<br /> +If you sit in the silence and ask for a Guide;<br /> +In the caverns of sorrow your soul gains its sight<br /> +Of beautiful vistas, ascending and wide.<br /> +In by-paths of worry and trouble and strife<br /> +Full many a bloom grows bedewed by a tear,<br /> +But wretched and arid and void of all life<br /> +Is the desolate Valley of Fear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>The Valley of Fear is a maddening maze<br /> +Of paths that wind on without exit or end,<br /> +From nowhere to nowhere lead all of its ways,<br /> +And shadows with shadows in more shadows blend.<br /> +Each guide-post is lettered, ‘This way to +Despair,’<br /> +And the River of Death in the darkness flows near,<br /> +But there is a beautiful Roadway of Prayer<br /> +This side of the Valley of Fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">This beautiful Roadway is narrow and steep,<br +/> +And it runs up the side of the Mountain of Faith.<br /> +You may not perceive it at first if you weep,<br /> +But it rises high over the River of Death.<br /> +Though the Roadway is narrow and dark at the base,<br /> +It widens ascending, and ever grows clear,<br /> +Till it shines at the top with the Light of God’s face,<br +/> +Far, far from the Valley of Fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">When close to that Valley your footsteps shall +fare,<br /> +Turn, turn to the Roadway of Prayer—<br /> +The beautiful Roadway of Prayer.</p> +<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>WHAT +WOULD IT BE?</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> what were the +words of Jesus,<br /> +And what would He pause and say,<br /> +If we were to meet in home or street,<br /> +The Lord of the world to-day?<br /> +Oh, I think He would pause and say:<br /> +‘Go on with your chosen labour;<br /> +Speak only good of your neighbour;<br /> +Widen your farms, and lay down your arms,<br /> +Or dig up the soil with each sabre.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now what were the answer of Jesus<br /> +If we should ask for a creed,<br /> +To carry us straight to the wonderful gate<br /> +When soul from body is freed?<br /> +Oh, I think He would give us this creed:<br /> +‘Praise God whatever betide you;<br /> +Cast joy on the lives beside you;<br /> +Better the earth, by growing in worth,<br /> +With love as the law to guide you.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>Now what were the answer of Jesus<br /> +If we should ask Him to tell<br /> +Of the last great goal of the homing soul<br /> +Where each of us hopes to dwell?<br /> +Oh, I think it is this He would tell:<br /> +‘The soul is the builder—then wake it;<br /> +The mind is the kingdom—then take it;<br /> +And thought upon thought let Eden be wrought,<br /> +For heaven will be what you make it.’</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>AMERICA</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> the refuge of +all the oppressed,<br /> +I am the boast of the free,<br /> +I am the harbour where ships may rest<br /> +Safely ’twixt sea and sea.<br /> +I hold up a torch to a darkened world,<br /> +I lighten the path with its ray.<br /> +Let my hand keep steady<br /> +And let me be ready<br /> +For whatever comes my way—<br /> +Let me be ready.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, better than fortresses, better than +guns,<br /> +Better than lance or spear,<br /> +Are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons,<br /> +Faithful and without fear.<br /> +But my daughters and sons must understand<br /> +<i>That Attila did not die</i>.<br /> +And they must be ready,<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>Their +hands must be steady,<br /> +If the hosts of hell come nigh—<br /> +They must be ready.</p> +<p class="poetry">If Jesus were back on the earth with men,<br /> +He would not preach to-day<br /> +Until He had made Him a scourge, and again<br /> +He would drive the defilers away.<br /> +He would throw down the tables of lust and greed<br /> +And scatter the changers’ gold.<br /> +He would be ready,<br /> +His hand would be steady,<br /> +As it was in that temple of old—<br /> +He would be ready.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am the cradle of God’s new world,<br /> +From me shall the new race rise,<br /> +And my glorious banner must float unfurled,<br /> +Unsullied against the skies.<br /> +My sons and daughters must be my strength,<br /> +With courage to do and to dare,<br /> +With hearts that are ready,<br /> +With hands that are steady,<br /> +And their slogan must be, <span +class="smcap">Prepare</span>!—<br /> +They must be ready!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>With a prayer on the lip they must shoulder arms,<br /> +For after all has been said,<br /> +We must muster guns,<br /> +If we master Huns—<br /> +<i>And Attila is not dead</i>—<br /> +We must be ready!</p> +<h2><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>WAR +MOTHERS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>There is something in the sound of drum and +fife</i><br /> +<i>That stirs all the savage instincts into life</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the old times of +peace we went our ways,<br /> +Through proper days<br /> +Of little joys and tasks. Lonely at times,<br /> +When from the steeple sounded wedding chimes,<br /> +Telling to all the world some maid was wife—<br /> +But taking patiently our part in life<br /> +As it was portioned us by Church and State,<br /> +Believing it our fate.<br /> + Our thoughts all chaste<br /> +Held yet a secret wish to love and mate<br /> + Ere youth and virtue should go quite to waste.<br /> +But men we criticised for lack of strength,<br /> +And kept them at arm’s length.<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Then the +war came—<br /> +The world was all aflame!<br /> +The men we had thought dull and void of power<br /> +Were heroes in an hour.<br /> +He who had seemed a slave to petty greed<br /> +Showed masterful in that great time of need.<br /> +He who had plotted for his neighbour’s pelf,<br /> +Now for his fellows offers up himself.<br /> +And we were only women, forced by war<br /> +To sacrifice the things worth living for.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Something within us broke</i>,<br /> + <i>Something within us woke</i>,<br /> + <i>The wild cave-woman +spoke</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>When we heard the sound of drumming</i>,<br +/> + <i>As our soldiers went to camp</i>,<br /> + <i>Heard them tramp</i>, <i>tramp</i>, +<i>tramp</i>;<br /> +<i>As we watched to see them coming</i>,<br /> + <i>And they looked at us and smiled</i><br /> + (<i>Yes</i>, <i>looked back at us and +smiled</i>),<br /> +<i>As they filed along by hillock and by hollow</i>,<br /> + <i>Then our hearts were so beguiled</i><br /> + <i>That</i>, <i>for many and many a day</i>,<br /> + <i>We dreamed we heard them say</i>,<br /> +‘<i>Oh</i>, <i>follow</i>, <i>follow</i>, +<i>follow</i>!’<br /> + <a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span><i>And the distant</i>, <i>rolling drum</i><br /> + <i>Called us</i> ‘<i>Come</i>, <i>come</i>, +<i>come</i>!’<br /> + <i>Till our virtue seemed a thing to give +away</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">War had swept ten thousand years away from +earth.<br /> + We were primal once again.<br /> + There were males, not modern men;<br /> +We were females meant to bring their sons to birth.<br /> + And we could not wait for any formal rite,<br /> + We could hear them calling to us, ‘Come +to-night;<br /> +For to-morrow, at the dawn,<br /> +We move on!’<br /> + And the drum<br /> + Bellowed, ‘Come, come, come!’<br /> +And the fife<br /> +Whistled, ‘Life, life, life!’</p> +<p class="poetry">So they moved on and fought and bled and +died;<br /> +Honoured and mourned, they are the nation’s pride.<br /> +We fought our battles, too, but with the tide<br /> +Of our red blood, we gave the world new lives.<br /> +Because we were not wives<br /> +We are dishonoured. Is it noble, then,<br /> +To break God’s laws only by killing men<br /> +<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>To save +one’s country from destruction?<br /> +We took no man’s life but gave our chastity,<br /> +And sinned the ancient sin<br /> +To plant young trees and fill felled forests in.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, clergy of the land,<br /> +Bible in hand,<br /> +All reverently you stand,<br /> + On holy thoughts intent<br /> + While barren wives receive the sacrament!<br /> +Had you the open visions you could see<br /> + Phantoms of infants murdered in the womb,<br /> + Who never knew a cradle or a tomb,<br /> +Hovering about these wives accusingly.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bestow the sacrament! Their sins are not +well known—<br /> +Ours to the four winds of the earth are blown.</p> +<h2><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>A +HOLIDAY</h2> +<p>Berlin, Germany, gave the school children a half holiday to +celebrate the sinking of the <i>Lusitania</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">War</span> declares a +holiday;<br /> +Little children, run and play.<br /> +Ring-a-rosy round the earth<br /> +With the garland of your mirth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Shrill a song brim full of glee<br /> +Of a great ship sunk at sea.<br /> +Tell with pleasure and with pride<br /> +How a hundred children died.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing of orphan babes, whose cries<br /> +Beat against unanswering skies;<br /> +Let a mother’s mad despair<br /> +Lend staccato to your air.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing of babes who drowned alone;<br /> +Sing of headstones, marked ‘Unknown’;<br /> +Sing of homes made desolate<br /> +Where the stricken mourners wait.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>Sing of battered corpses tossed<br /> +By the heedless waves, and lost.<br /> +Run, sweet children, sing and play;<br /> +War declares a holiday.</p> +<h2><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>THE +UNDERTONE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I was very +young I used to feel the dark despairs of youth;<br /> +Out of my little griefs I would invent great tragedies and +woes;<br /> +Not only for myself, but for all those I held most dear<br /> +I would invent vast sorrows in my melancholy moods of thought.<br +/> +Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of +rapture.<br /> +It was like a voice from some other world calling softly to +me,<br /> +Saying things joyful.</p> +<p class="poetry">As I grew older, and Life offered bitter gall +for me to drink,<br /> +Forcing it through clenched teeth when I refused to take it +willingly;<br /> +<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>When Pain +prepared some special anguish for my heart to bear,<br /> +And all the things I longed for seemed to be wholly beyond my +reach—<br /> +Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of +rapture.<br /> +It was like a Voice, a Voice from some other world calling to +me,<br /> +Bringing glad tidings.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now when I look about me, and see the great +injustices of men,<br /> +See Idleness and Greed waited upon by luxury and mirth,<br /> +See prosperous Vice ride by in state, while footsore Virtue +walks;<br /> +Now when I hear the cry of need rise up from lands of shameful +wealth—<br /> +Yet down deep, deep in my heart there is an undertone of +rapture.<br /> +It is like a Voice—it is a Voice—calling to me and +saying:<br /> +‘Love rules triumphant.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now when each mile-post on the path of life +seems marked by headstones,<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>And one by +one dear faces that I loved are hid away from sight;<br /> +Now when in each familiar home I see a vacant chair,<br /> +And in the throngs once formed of friends I meet unrecognising +eyes—<br /> +Yet down deep, deep in my heart there is an undertone of +rapture.<br /> +It is the Voice, it is the Voice for ever saying unto me:<br /> +‘Life is Eternal.’</p> +<h2><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>GYPSYING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gypsying</span>, gypsying, +through the world together,<br /> +Never mind the way we go, never mind what port.<br /> +Follow trails, or fashion sails, start in any weather:<br /> +While we journey hand in hand, everything is sport.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gypsying, gypsying, leaving care and worry:<br +/> +Never mind the ‘if’ and ‘but’ (words for +coward lips).<br /> +Put them out with ‘fear’ and ‘doubt,’ in +the pack with ‘hurry,’<br /> +While we stroll like vagabonds forth to trails, or ships.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gypsying, gypsying, just where fancy calls +us;<br /> +Never mind what others say, or what others do.<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Everywhere +or foul or fair, liking what befalls us:<br /> +While you have me at your side, and while I have you.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gypsying, gypsying, camp by hill or hollow;<br +/> +Never mind the why of it, since it suits our mood.<br /> +Go or stay, and pay our way, and let those who follow<br /> +Find, upspringing from the soil, some small seed of good.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gypsying, gypsying, through the world we +wander:<br /> +Never mind the rushing years, that have come and gone.<br /> +There must be for you and me, lying over Yonder,<br /> +Other lands, where side by side we can gypsy on.</p> +<h2><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>SONG +OF THE ROAD</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> a Road; a good +road, fair and smooth and broad;<br /> + And I link with my beautiful tether<br /> + Town and Country together,<br /> +Like a ribbon rolled on the earth, from the reel of God.<br /> + Oh, great the life of a Road!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am a Road; a long road, leading on and on;<br +/> + And I cry to the world to follow,<br /> + Past meadow and hill and hollow,<br /> +Through desolate night, to the open gates of dawn.<br /> + Oh, bold the life of a Road!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am a Road; a kind road, shaped by strong +hands.<br /> + I make strange cities neighbours;<br /> + The poor grow rich with my labours,<br /> +And beauty and comfort follow me through the lands.<br /> + Oh, glad the life of a Road!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>I am a Road; a wise road, knowing all men’s +ways;<br /> + And I know how each heart reaches<br /> + For the things dear Nature teaches;<br /> +And I am the path that leads into green young Mays.<br /> + Oh, sweet the life of a Road!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am a Road; and I speed away from the +slums,<br /> + Away from desolate places,<br /> + Away from unused spaces;<br /> +Wherever I go, there order from chaos comes.<br /> + Oh, brave the life of a Road!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am a Road; and I would make the whole world +one.<br /> + I would give hope to duty,<br /> + And cover the earth with beauty.<br /> +Do you not see, O men! how all this might be done?<br /> + So vast the power of the Road!</p> +<h2><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>THE +FAITH WE NEED</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Too</span> tall our +structures, and too swift our pace;<br /> +Not so we mount, not so we gain the race.<br /> +Too loud the voice of commerce in the land;<br /> +Not so truth speaks, not so we understand.<br /> +Too vast our conquests, and too large our gains;<br /> +Not so comes peace, not so the soul attains.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the need of the world is a faith that will +live anywhere;<br /> +In the still dark depths of the woods, or out in the sun’s +full glare.<br /> +A faith that can hear God’s voice, alike in the quiet +glen,<br /> +Or in the roar of the street, and over the noises of men.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>And the need of the world is a creed that is founded on +joy;<br /> +A creed with the turrets of hope and trust, no winds can +destroy;<br /> +A creed where the soul finds rest, whatever this life bestows,<br +/> +And dwells undoubting and unafraid, because it knows, it +knows.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the need of the world is love that burns in +the heart like flame;<br /> +A love for the Giver of Life, in sorrow or joy the same;<br /> +A love that blazes a trail to Go through the dark and the +cold,<br /> +Or keeps the pathway that leads to Him clean, through glory and +gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the faith that can only thrive or grow in +the solitude,<br /> +And droops and dies in the marts of men, where sights and sounds +are rude;<br /> +That is not a faith at all, but a dream of a mystic’s +heart;<br /> +Our faith should point as the compass points, whatever be the +chart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>Our faith must find its centre of peace in a babel of +noise;<br /> +In the changing ways of the world of men it must keep its +poise;<br /> +And over the sorrowing sounds of earth it must hear God’s +call;<br /> +And the faith that cannot do all this, that is not faith at +all.</p> +<h2><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>THE +PRICE HE PAID</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">said</span> I would have +my fling,<br /> + And do what a young man may;<br /> +And I didn’t believe a thing<br /> + That the parsons have to say.<br /> +I didn’t believe in a God<br /> + That gives us blood like fire,<br /> +Then flings us into hell because<br /> + We answer the call of desire.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I said: ‘Religion is rot,<br /> + And the laws of the world are nil;<br /> +For the bad man is he who is caught<br /> + And cannot foot his bill.<br /> +And there is no place called hell;<br /> + And heaven is only a truth<br /> +When a man has his way with a maid,<br /> + In the fresh keen hour of youth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>‘And money can buy us grace,<br /> + If it rings on the plate of the church:<br /> +And money can neatly erase<br /> + Each sign of a sinful smirch.’<br /> +For I saw men everywhere,<br /> + Hotfooting the road of vice;<br /> +And women and preachers smiled on them<br /> + As long as they paid the price.</p> +<p class="poetry">So I had my joy of life:<br /> + I went the pace of the town;<br /> +And then I took me a wife,<br /> + And started to settle down.<br /> +I had gold enough and to spare<br /> + For all of the simple joys<br /> +That belong with a house and a home<br /> + And a brood of girls and boys.</p> +<p class="poetry">I married a girl with health<br /> + And virtue and spotless fame.<br /> +I gave in exchange my wealth<br /> + And a proud old family name.<br /> +And I gave her the love of a heart<br /> + Grown sated and sick of sin!<br /> +My deal with the devil was all cleaned up,<br /> + And the last bill handed in.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>She was going to bring me a child,<br /> + And when in labour she cried<br /> +With love and fear I was wild—<br /> + But now I wish she had died.<br /> +For the son she bore me was blind<br /> + And crippled and weak and sore!<br /> +And his mother was left a wreck.<br /> + It was so she settled my score.</p> +<p class="poetry">I said I must have my fling,<br /> + And they knew the path I would go;<br /> +Yet no one told me a thing<br /> + Of what I needed to know.<br /> +Folks talk too much of a soul<br /> + From heavenly joys debarred—<br /> +And not enough of the babes unborn,<br /> + By the sins of their fathers scarred.</p> +<h2><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>DIVORCED</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thinking</span> of one +thing all day long, at night<br /> +I fall asleep, brain weary and heart sore;<br /> +But only for a little while. At three,<br /> +Sometimes at two o’clock, I wake and lie,<br /> +Staring out into darkness; while my thoughts<br /> +Begin the weary treadmill-toil again,<br /> +From that white marriage morning of our youth<br /> +Down to this dreadful hour.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I see your +face<br /> +Lit with the lovelight of the honeymoon;<br /> +I hear your voice, that lingered on my name<br /> +As if it loved each letter; and I feel<br /> +The clinging of your arms about my form,<br /> +Your kisses on my cheek—and long to break<br /> +The anguish of such memories with tears,<br /> +But cannot weep; the fountain has run dry.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>We were so young, so happy, and so full<br /> +Of keen sweet joy of life. I had no wish<br /> +Outside your pleasure; and you loved me so<br /> +That when I sometimes felt a woman’s need<br /> +For more serene expression of man’s love<br /> +(The need to rest in calm affection’s bay<br /> +And not sail ever on the stormy main),<br /> +Yet would I rouse myself to your desire;<br /> +Meet ardent kiss with kisses just as warm;<br /> +So nothing I could give should be denied.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then our children came. Deep in my +soul,<br /> +From the first hour of conscious motherhood,<br /> +I knew I should conserve myself for this<br /> +Most holy office; knew God meant it so.<br /> +Yet even then, I held your wishes first;<br /> +And by my double duties lost the bloom<br /> +And freshness of my beauty; and beheld<br /> +A look of disapproval in your eyes.<br /> +But with the coming of our precious child,<br /> +The lover’s smile, tinged with the father’s pride,<br +/> +Returned again; and helped to make me strong;<br /> +And life was very sweet for both of us.</p> +<p class="poetry">Another, and another birth, and twice<br /> +The little white hearse paused beside our door<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>And took +away some portion of my youth<br /> +With my sweet babies. At the first you seemed<br /> +To suffer with me, standing very near;<br /> +But when I wept too long, you turned away.<br /> +And I was hurt, not realising then<br /> +My grief was selfish. I could see the change<br /> +Which motherhood and sorrow made in me;<br /> +And when I saw the change that came to you,<br /> +Saw how your eyes looked past me when you talked,<br /> +And when I missed the love tone from your voice,<br /> +I did that foolish thing weak women do,<br /> +Complained and cried, accused you of neglect,<br /> +And made myself obnoxious in your sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">And often, after you had left my side,<br /> +Alone I stood before my mirror, mad<br /> +With anger at my pallid cheeks, my dull<br /> +Unlighted eyes, my shrunken mother-breasts,<br /> +And wept, and wept, and faded more and more.<br /> +How could I hope to win back wandering love,<br /> +And make new flames in dying embers leap,<br /> +By such ungracious means?</p> +<p class="poetry"> And then +She came,<br /> +Firm-bosomed, round of cheek, with such young eyes,<br /> +And all the ways of youth. I who had died<br /> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>A thousand +deaths, in waiting the return<br /> +Of that old love-look to your face once more,<br /> +Died yet again and went straight into hell<br /> +When I beheld it come at her approach.</p> +<p class="poetry">My God, my God, how have I borne it all!<br /> +Yet since she had the power to wake that look—<br /> +The power to sweep the ashes from your heart<br /> +Of burned-out love of me, and light new fires,<br /> +One thing remained for me—to let you go.<br /> +I had no wish to keep the empty frame<br /> +From which the priceless picture had been wrenched.<br /> +Nor do I blame you; it was not your fault:<br /> +You gave me all that most men can give—love<br /> +Of youth, of beauty, and of passion; and<br /> +I gave you full return; my womanhood<br /> +Matched well your manhood. Yet had you grown ill,<br /> +Or old, and unattractive from some cause<br /> +(Less close than was my service unto you),<br /> +I should have clung the tighter to you, dear;<br /> +And loved you, loved you, loved you more and more.</p> +<p class="poetry">I grow so weary thinking of these things;<br /> +Day in, day out; and half the awful nights.</p> +<h2><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>THE +REVEALING ANGELS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Suddenly</span> and without +warning they came—<br /> +The Revealing Angels came.<br /> +Suddenly and simultaneously, through city streets,<br /> +Through quiet lanes and country roads they walked.<br /> +They walked crying: ‘God has sent us to find<br /> +The vilest sinners of earth.<br /> +We are to bring them before Him, before the Lord of +Life.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Their voices were like bugles;<br /> +And then all war, all strife,<br /> +And all the noises of the world grew still;<br /> +And no one talked;<br /> +And no one toiled, but many strove to flee away.<br /> +Robbers and thieves, and those sunk in drunkenness and crime,<br +/> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>Men and +women of evil repute,<br /> +And mothers with fatherless children in their arms, all strove to +hide.<br /> +But the Revealing Angels passed them by,<br /> +Saying: ‘Not you, not you.<br /> +Another day, when we shall come again<br /> +Unto the haunts of men,<br /> +Then we will call your names;<br /> +But God has asked us first to bring to him<br /> +Those guilty of greater shames<br /> +Than lust, or theft, or drunkenness, or vice—<br /> +Yea, greater than murder done in passion,<br /> +Or self-destruction done in dark despair.<br /> +Now in His Holy Name we call:<br /> +Come one and all<br /> +Come forth; reveal your faces.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then through the awful silence of the world,<br +/> +Where noise had ceased, they came—<br /> +The sinful hosts.<br /> +They came from lowly and from lofty places,<br /> +Some poorly clad, but many clothed like queens;<br /> +They came from scenes of revel and from toil;<br /> +From haunts of sin, from palaces, from homes,<br /> +From boudoirs, and from churches.<br /> +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>They came +like ghosts—<br /> +<i>The vast brigades of women who had slain</i><br /> +<i>Their helpless</i>, <i>unborn children</i>. With them +trailed<br /> +Lovers and husbands who had said, ‘Do this,’<br /> +And those who helped for hire.<br /> +They stood before the Angels—before the Revealing<br /> +Angels they stood.<br /> +And they heard the Angels say,<br /> +And all the listening world heard the Angels say:<br /> +‘These are the vilest sinners of all;<br /> +For the Lord of Life made sex that birth might come;<br /> +Made sex and its keen compelling desire<br /> +To fashion bodies wherein souls might go<br /> +From lower planes to higher,<br /> +Until the end is reached (which is Beginning).<br /> +They have stolen the costly pleasures of the senses<br /> +And refused to pay God’s price.<br /> +They have come together, these men and these women,<br /> +As male and female they have come together<br /> +In the great creative act.<br /> +They have invited souls, and then flung them out into space;<br +/> +They have made a jest of God’s design.<br /> +All other sins look white beside this sinning;<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>All other +sins may be condoned, forgiven;<br /> +All other sinners may be cleansed and shriven;<br /> +Not these, not these.<br /> +Pass on, and meet God’s eyes.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The vast brigade moved forward, and behind then +walked the Angels,<br /> +Walked the sorrowful Revealing Angels.</p> +<h2><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>THE +WELL-BORN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">So</span> many +people—people—in the world;<br /> +So few great souls, love ordered, well begun,<br /> +In answer to the fertile mother need!<br /> +So few who seem<br /> +The image of the Maker’s mortal dream;<br /> +So many born of mere propinquity—<br /> +Of lustful habit, or of accident.<br /> +Their mothers felt<br /> +No mighty, all-compelling wish to see<br /> +Their bosoms garden-places<br /> +Abloom with flower faces;<br /> +No tidal wave swept o’er them with its flood;<br /> +No thrill of flesh or heart; no leap of blood;<br /> +No glowing fire, flaming to white desire<br /> +For mating and for motherhood:<br /> +Yet they bore children.<br /> +God! how mankind misuses Thy command,<br /> +To populate the earth!<br /> +How low is brought high birth!<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>How low +the woman; when, inert as spawn<br /> +Left on the sands to fertilise,<br /> +She is the means through which the race goes on!<br /> +Not so the first intent.<br /> +Birth, as the Supreme Mind conceived it, meant<br /> +The clear imperious call of mate to mate<br /> +And the clear answer. Only thus and then<br /> +Are fine, well-ordered, and potential lives<br /> +Brought into being. Not by Church or State<br /> +Can birth be made legitimate,<br /> +Unless<br /> +Love in its fulness bless.<br /> +Creation so ordains its lofty laws<br /> +That man, while greater in all other things,<br /> +Is lesser in the generative cause.<br /> +The father may be merely man, the male;<br /> +Yet more than female must the mother be.<br /> +The woman who would fashion<br /> +Souls, for the use of earth and angels meet,<br /> +Must entertain a high and holy passion.<br /> +Not rank, or wealth, or influence of kings<br /> +Can give a soul its dower<br /> +Of majesty and power,<br /> +Unless the mother brings<br /> +Great love to that great hour.</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>SISTERS OF MINE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sisters</span>, sisters of +mine, have we done what we could<br /> +In all the old ways, through all the new days,<br /> +To better the race and to make life sweet and good?<br /> +Have we played the full part that was ours in the start,<br /> +Sisters of mine?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sisters, sisters of mine, as we hurry along<br +/> +To a larger world, with our banners unfurled,<br /> +The battle-cry on lips where once was Love’s old song,<br +/> +Are we leaving behind better things than we find,<br /> +Sisters of mine?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sisters, sisters of mine, through the march in +the street,<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Through +turmoil and din, without, and within,<br /> +As we gain something big do we lose something sweet?<br /> +In the growth of our might is our grace lost to sight?<br /> +As new powers unfold do we <i>love</i> as of old,<br /> +Sisters of mine?</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>ANSWER</h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">well</span> have we done +the old tasks! in the old, old ways of earth.<br /> +We have kept the house in order, we have given the children +birth;<br /> +And our sons went out with their fathers, and left us alone at +the hearth!</p> +<p class="poetry">We have cooked the meats for their table; we +have woven their cloth at the loom;<br /> +We have pulled the weeds from their gardens, and kept the flowers +in bloom;<br /> +And then we have sat and waited, alone in a silent room.</p> +<p class="poetry">We have borne all the pains of travail in +giving life to the race;<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>We have +toiled and saved, for the masters, and helped them to power and +place;<br /> +And when we asked for a pittance, they gave it with grudging +grace.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the bold, bright face of the dollar all the +evils of earth are shown.<br /> +We are weary of love that is barter, and of virtue that pines +alone;<br /> +We are out in the world with the masters: we are finding and +claiming our own!</p> +<h2><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>THE +GRADUATES</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">saw</span> them +beautiful, in fair array upon Commencement Day;<br /> +Lissome and lovely, radiant and sweet<br /> +As cultured roses, brought to their estate<br /> +By careful training. Finished and complete<br /> +(As teachers calculate).</p> +<p class="poetry">They passed in maiden grace along the aisle,<br +/> +Leaving the chaste white sunlight of a smile<br /> +Upon the gazing throng.<br /> +Musing I thought upon their place as mothers of the race.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh there are many actors who can play<br /> +Greatly, great parts; but rare indeed the soul<br /> +Who can be great when cast for some small rôle;<br /> +Yet that is what the world most needs; big hearts<br /> +That will shine forth and glorify poor parts<br /> +<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>In this +strange drama, Life! Do they,<br /> +Who in full dress-rehearsal pass to-day<br /> +Before admiring eyes, hold in their store<br /> +Those fine high principles which keep old Earth<br /> +From being only earth; and make men more<br /> +Than just mere men? How will they prove their worth<br /> +Of years of study? Will they walk abroad<br /> +Decked with the plumage of dead bards of God,<br /> +The glorious birds? And shall the lamb unborn<br /> +Be slain on altars of their vanity?<br /> +To some frail sister who has missed the way<br /> +Will they give Christ’s compassion, or man’s +scorn;<br /> +And will clean manhood, linked with honest love,<br /> +The victor prove,<br /> +When riches, gained by greed, dispute the claim?<br /> +Will they guard well a husband’s home and name.<br /> +Or lean down from their altitudes to hear<br /> +The voice of flattery speak in the ear<br /> +Those lying platitudes which men repeat<br /> +To listening Self-Conceit?<br /> +Musing I thought upon their place as mothers of the race,<br /> +As beautiful they passed in maiden grace.</p> +<h2><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>THE +SILENT TRAGEDY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> deepest +tragedies of life are not<br /> +Put into books, or acted on the stage.<br /> +Nay, they are lived in silence, by tense hearts<br /> +In homes, among dull unperceiving kin,<br /> +And thoughtless friends, who make a whip of words<br /> +Wherewith to lash these hearts, and call it wit.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is a tragedy lived everywhere<br /> +In Christian lands, by an increasing horde<br /> +Of women martyrs to our social laws.<br /> +Women whose hearts cry out for motherhood;<br /> +Women whose bosoms ache for little heads;<br /> +Women God meant for mothers, but whose lives<br /> +Have been restrained, restricted, and denied<br /> +Their natural channels, till at last they stand<br /> +Unmated and alone, by that sad sea<br /> +Whose slow receding tide returns no more.<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>Men meet +great sorrows; but no man can grasp<br /> +The depth, and height, of such a grief as this.</p> +<p class="poetry">The call of Fatherhood is from man’s +brain.<br /> +Man cannot know the answer to that call<br /> +Save as a woman tells him. But to her<br /> +The call of Motherhood is from the soul,<br /> +The brain, the body. She is like a plant<br /> +Which buds and blossoms only to bear fruit.<br /> +Man is the pollen, carried by the wind<br /> +Of accident, or impulse, or desire;<br /> +And then his rôle of fatherhood is played.<br /> +Her threefold knowledge of maternity,<br /> +Through three times three great months, is hers alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Man as an egotist is wounded when<br /> +He is not father. Woman when denied<br /> +The all-embracing rôle of motherhood<br /> +Rebels with her whole being. Oftentimes<br /> +Rebellion finds its only utterance<br /> +In shattered nerves, and lack of self-control;<br /> +Which gives the merry world its chance to cry<br /> +‘Old maids are queer.’<br /> + In far off Eastern lands</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>They think of God as Mother to the race;<br /> +Father and Mother of the Universe.<br /> +And mayhap this is why they make their girls<br /> +Wives prematurely, mothers over young,<br /> +Hoping to please their Mother God this way.<br /> +Since everywhere in Nature sex is shown<br /> +For procreative uses, they contend<br /> +Sterility is sinful. (Save when one<br /> +Chooses a life of Saintship here on earth,<br /> +And so conserves all forces to that end.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Here in the West, our God is Masculine;<br /> +And while we say He bade a Virgin bring<br /> +His Son to birth, we think of Him as One<br /> +Placing false values on forced continence—<br /> +Preparing heavens for those who live that life—<br /> +And hells for those who stray by thought or act<br /> +From the unnatural path our laws have made.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mother of Christ, thou being woman, thou<br /> +Knowing all depths within the woman heart,<br /> +All joy, all pain, oh send the world more light.<br /> +Enlarge our sympathies; and let our minds<br /> +Turn from achievements of material things<br /> +To contemplation of Eternal truths.<br /> +<a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Space +throbs with egos, waiting for rebirth;<br /> +And mother-hearted women fill the earth.<br /> +Mother of Christ, show us the way to thin<br /> +The ranks of childless women, without sin.</p> +<h2><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>THE +TRINITY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Much</span> may be done +with the world we are in,<br /> +Much with the race to better it;<br /> +We can unfetter it,<br /> +Free it from chains of the old traditions;<br /> +Broaden its viewpoint of virtue and sin;<br /> +Change its conditions<br /> +Of labour and wealth;<br /> +And open new roadways to knowledge and health.<br /> +<i>Yet some things ever must stay as they are</i><br /> +<i>While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star</i>.<br /> +A man and a woman with love between,<br /> +Loyal and tender and true and clean,<br /> +Nothing better has been or can be<br /> +Than just those three.</p> +<p class="poetry">Woman may alter the first great plan.<br /> +Daughters and sisters and mothers<br /> +May stalk with their brothers<br /> +Forth from their homes into noisy places<br /> +Fit (and fit only) for masculine man.<br /> +Marring their graces<br /> +<a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>With +conflict and strife<br /> +To widen the outlook of all human life.<br /> +<i>Yet some things ever must stay as they are</i><br /> +<i>While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star</i>.<br /> +A man and a woman with love that strengthens<br /> +And gathers new force as its earth way lengthens;<br /> +Nothing better by God is given<br /> +This side of heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">Science may show us a wonderful vast<br /> +Secret of life and of breeding it;<br /> +Man by the heeding it<br /> +Out of earth’s chaos may bring a new order.<br /> +Off with old systems, old laws may be cast.<br /> +What now seems the border<br /> +Of licence in creeds,<br /> +May then be the centre of thoughts and of deeds.<br /> +<i>Yet some things ever must stay as they are</i><br /> +<i>While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star</i>.<br /> +A man and a woman and love undefiled<br /> +And the look of the two in the face of a child,—<br /> +Oh, the joys of this world have their changing ways,<br /> +But this joy stays.<br /> +Nothing better on earth can be<br /> +Than just those three.</p> +<h2><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>THE +UNWED MOTHER TO THE WIFE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">had</span> been almost +happy for an hour,<br /> +Lost to the world that knew me in the park<br /> +Among strange faces; while my little girl<br /> +Leaped with the squirrels, chirruped with the birds<br /> +And with the sunlight glowed. She was so dear,<br /> +So beautiful, so sweet; and for the time<br /> +The rose of love, shorn of its thorn of shame,<br /> +Bloomed in my heart. Then suddenly you passed.<br /> +I sat alone upon the public bench;<br /> +You, with your lawful husband, rode in state;<br /> +And when your eyes fell on me and my child,<br /> +They were not eyes, but daggers, poison tipped.</p> +<p class="poetry">God! how good women slaughter with a look!<br +/> +And, like cold steel, your glance cut through my heart,<br /> +<a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>Struck +every petal from the rose of love<br /> +And left the ragged stalk alive with thorns.</p> +<p class="poetry">My little one came running to my side<br /> +And called me Mother. It was like a blow<br /> +Between the eyes; and made me sick with pain.<br /> +And then it seemed as if each bird and breeze<br /> +Took up the word, and changed its syllables<br /> +From Mother into Magdalene; and cried<br /> +My shame to all the world.</p> +<p class="poetry"> It was your +eyes<br /> +Which did all this. But listen now to me<br /> +(Not you alone, but all the barren wives<br /> +Who, like you, flaunt their virtue in the face<br /> +Of fallen women): I do chance to know<br /> +The crimes you think are hidden from all men<br /> +(Save one who took your gold and sold his skill<br /> +And jeopardized his name for your base ends).</p> +<p class="poetry">I know how you have sunk your soul in sense<br +/> +Like any wanton; and refused to bear<br /> +The harvest of your pleasure-planted seed;<br /> +I know how you have crushed the tender bud<br /> +Which held a soul; how you have blighted it;<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>And made +the holy miracle of birth<br /> +A wicked travesty of God’s design;<br /> +Yea, many buds, which might be blossoms now<br /> +And beautify your selfish, arid life,<br /> +Have been destroyed, because you chose to keep<br /> +The aimless freedom, and the purposeless,<br /> +Self-seeking liberty of childless wives.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was an untaught girl. By nature led,<br +/> +By love and passion blinded, I became<br /> +An unwed mother. You, an honoured wife,<br /> +Refuse the crown of motherhood, defy<br /> +The laws of nature, and fling baby souls<br /> +Back in the face of God. And yet you dare<br /> +Call me a sinner, and yourself a saint;<br /> +And all the world smiles on you, and its doors<br /> +Swing wide at your approach.<br /> + I stand outside.</p> +<p class="poetry">Surely there must be higher courts than +earth,<br /> +Where you and I will some day meet and be<br /> +Weighed by a larger justice.</p> +<h2><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>FATHER AND SON</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> grand-dame, +vigorous at eighty-one,<br /> +Delights in talking of her only son,<br /> +My gallant father, long since dead and gone.<br /> +‘Ah, but he was the lad!’<br /> +She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance.<br /> +How well I read the meaning of that glance—<br /> + ‘Poor son of such a dad;<br /> + Poor weakling, dull and sad.’<br /> +I could, but would not tell her bitter truth<br /> +About my father’s youth.</p> +<p class="poetry">She says: ‘Your father laughed his way +through earth:<br /> +He laughed right in the doctor’s face at birth,<br /> +Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.<br /> + Ah, what a lad was he!’<br /> +And then she sighs. I feel her silent blame,<br /> +Because I brought her nothing but his name.<br /> + <a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>Because she does not see<br /> + Her worshipped son in me.<br /> +I could, but would not, speak in my defence,<br /> +Anent the difference.</p> +<p class="poetry">She says: ‘He won all prizes in his +time:<br /> +He overworked, and died before his prime.<br /> +At high ambition’s door I lay the crime.<br /> + Ah, what a lad he was!’<br /> +Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought,<br /> +Of what avail to say, ‘His death was brought<br /> + By broken sexual laws,<br /> + The ancient sinful cause.’<br /> +I could, but would not, tell the good old dame<br /> +The story of his shame.</p> +<p class="poetry">I could say: ‘I am crippled, weak, and +pale,<br /> +Because my father was an unleashed male.<br /> +Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail<br /> + (Ah, yes, he was the lad),<br /> +Because he drained each cup of sense-delight<br /> +I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night.<br /> + Because he was joy-mad,<br /> + I must be always sad.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>Because he learned no law of self-control,<br /> +I am a blighted soul.’<br /> + Of what avail to speak and spoil her joy.<br /> +Better to see her disapproving eyes,<br /> +And silent, hear her say, between her sighs,<br /> + ‘Ah, but he was the boy!’</p> +<h2><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>HUSKS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> looked at her +neighbour’s house in the light of the waning day—<br +/> +A shower of rice on the steps, and the shreds of a bride’s +bouquet.<br /> +And then she drew the shade, to shut out the growing gloom,<br /> +But she shut it into her heart instead. (Was that a voice +in the room?)</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My neighbour is sad,’ she sighed, +‘like the mother bird who sees<br /> +The last of her brood fly out of the nest to make its home in the +trees’—<br /> +And then in a passion of tears—‘But, oh, to be sad +like her:<br /> +Sad for a joy that has come and gone!’ (Did some one +speak, or stir?)</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>She looked at her faded hands, all burdened with costly +rings;<br /> +She looked on her widowed home, all burdened with priceless +things.<br /> +She thought of the dead years gone, of the empty years +ahead—<br /> +(Yes, something stirred and something spake, and this was what it +said:)</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>The voice of the Might Have Been +speaks here through the lonely dusk</i>;<br /> +<i>Life offered the fruits of love</i>; <i>you gathered only the +husk</i>.<br /> +<i>There are jewels ablaze on your breast where never a child has +slept</i>.’<br /> +She covered her face with her ringed old hands, and wept and wept +and wept.</p> +<h2><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>MEDITATIONS</h2> +<h3>HIS</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">was</span> so proud of +you last night, dear girl,<br /> +While man with man was striving for your smile.<br /> +You never lost your head, nor once dropped down<br /> +From your high place<br /> +As queen in that gay whirl.</p> +<p class="poetry">(It takes more poise to wear a little crown<br +/> +With modesty and grace<br /> +Than to adorn the lordlier thrones of earth.)</p> +<p class="poetry">You seem so free from artifice and wile:<br /> +And in your eyes I read<br /> +Encouragement to my unspoken thought.<br /> +My heart is eloquent with words to plead<br /> +Its cause of passion; but my questioning mind,<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>Knowing +how love is blind,<br /> +Dwells on the pros and cons, and God knows what.</p> +<p class="poetry">My heart cries with each beat,<br /> +‘She is so beautiful, so pure, so sweet,<br /> +So more than dear.’<br /> +And then I hear<br /> +The voice of Reason, asking: ‘Would she meet<br /> +Life’s common duties with good common sense?<br /> +Could she bear quiet evenings at your hearth,<br /> +And not be sighing for gay scenes of mirth?<br /> +If, some great day, love’s mighty recompense<br /> +For chastity surrendered came to her,<br /> +If she felt stir<br /> +Beneath her heart a little pulse of life,<br /> +Would she rejoice with holy pride and wonder,<br /> +And find new glory in the name of wife?<br /> +Or would she plot with sin, and seek to plunder<br /> +Love’s sanctuary, and cast away its treasure,<br /> +That she might keep her freedom and her pleasure?<br /> +Could she be loyal mate and mother dutiful?<br /> +Or is she only some bright hothouse bloom,<br /> +Seedless and beautiful,<br /> +Meant just for decoration, and for show?’<br /> +Alone here in my room,<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>I hear +this voice of Reason. My poor heart<br /> +Has ever but one answer to impart,<br /> +‘I love her so.’</p> +<h3>HERS</h3> +<p class="poetry">After the ball last night, when I came home<br +/> +I stood before my mirror, and took note<br /> +Of all that men call beautiful. Delight,<br /> +Keen sweet delight, possessed me, when I saw<br /> +My own reflection smiling on me there,<br /> +Because your eyes, through all the swirling hours,<br /> +And in your slow good-night, had made a fact<br /> +Of what before I fancied might be so;<br /> +Yet knowing how men lie, by look and act,<br /> +I still had doubted. But I doubt no more,<br /> +I know you love me, love me. And I feel<br /> +Your satisfaction in my comeliness.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beauty and youth, good health and willing +mind,<br /> +A spotless reputation, and a heart<br /> +Longing for mating and for motherhood,<br /> +And lips unsullied by another’s kiss—<br /> +These are the riches I can bring to you.</p> +<p class="poetry">But as I sit here, thinking of it all<br /> +In the clear light of morning, sudden fear<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>Has +seized upon me. What has been your past?<br /> +From out the jungle of old reckless years,<br /> +May serpents crawl across our path some day<br /> +And pierce us with their fangs? Oh, I am not<br /> +A prude or bigot; and I have not lived<br /> +A score and three full years in ignorance<br /> +Of human nature. Much I can condone;<br /> +For well I know our kinship to the earth<br /> +And all created things. Why, even I<br /> +Have felt the burden of virginity,<br /> +When flowers and birds and golden butterflies<br /> +In early spring were mating; and I know<br /> +How loud that call of sex must sound to man<br /> +Above the feeble protest of the world.<br /> +But I can hear from depths within my soul<br /> +The voices of my unborn children cry<br /> +For rightful heritage. (May God attune<br /> +The souls of men, that they may hear and heed<br /> +That plaintive voice above the call of sex;<br /> +And may the world’s weak protest swell into<br /> +A thunderous diapason—a demand<br /> +For cleaner fatherhood.)<br /> + Oh, love, come near;<br /> +Look in my eyes, and say I need not fear.</p> +<h2><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>THE +TRAVELLER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bristling</span> with +steeples, high against the hill,<br /> +Like some great thistle in the rosy dawn<br /> +It stood; the Town-of-Christian-Churches, stood.<br /> +The Traveller surveyed it with a smile.<br /> +‘Surely,’ He said, ‘here is the home of +peace;<br /> +Here neighbour lives with neighbour in accord;<br /> +God in the heart of all. Else why these spires?’<br +/> +(Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)</p> +<p class="poetry">The sudden shriek of whistles changed the +sound<br /> +From mellow music into jarring noise.<br /> +Then down the street pale hurrying children came,<br /> +And vanished in the yawning Factory door.<br /> +He called to them: ‘Come back, come unto Me.’<br /> +The Foreman cursed, and caned Him from the place.<br /> +(Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>Forth from two churches came two men, and met,<br /> +Disputing loudly over boundary lines,<br /> +Hate in their eyes, and murder in their hearts.<br /> +A haughty woman drew her skirts aside<br /> +Because her fallen sister passed that way.<br /> +The Traveller rebuked them all. Amazed,<br /> +They asked in indignation, ‘Who are you,<br /> +Daring to interfere in private lives?’<br /> +The Traveller replied, ‘My name is CHRIST.’<br /> +(Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)</p> +<h2><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>WHAT +HAVE YOU DONE?</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> have you done, +and what are you doing with life, O Man!<br /> +O Average Man of the world—<br /> +Average Man of the Christian world we call civilised?<br /> +What have you done to pay for the labour pains of the mother who +bore you?<br /> +On earth you occupy space; you consume oxygen from the air:<br /> +And what do you give in return for these things?<br /> +Who is better that you live, and strive, and toil?<br /> +Or that you live through the toiling and striving of others?<br +/> +As you pass down the street does any one look on you and say,<br +/> +‘There goes a good son, a true husband, a wise father, a +fine citizen?<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>A man +whose strong hand is ready to help a neighbour,<br /> +A man to trust’? And what do women say of you?<br /> +Unto their own souls what do women say?<br /> +Do they say: ‘He helped to make the road easier for tired +feet?<br /> +To broaden the narrow horizon for aching eyes?<br /> +He helped us to higher ideals of womanhood’?<br /> +Look into your own heart and answer, O Average Man of the +world,<br /> +Of the Christian world we call civilised.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p class="poetry">What do men think of you, what do they think +and say of you,<br /> +O Average Woman of the world?<br /> +Do they say: ‘There is a woman with a great heart,<br /> +Loyal to her sex, and above envy and evil speaking?<br /> +There is a daughter, wife, mother, with a purpose in life:<br /> +She can be trusted to mould the minds of little children.<br /> +She knows how to be good without being dull;<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>How to +be glad and to make others glad without descending to folly;<br +/> +She is one who illuminates the path wherein she walks;<br /> +One who awakens the best in every human being she +meets’?<br /> +Look into your heart, O Woman! and answer this:<br /> +What are you doing with the beautiful years?<br /> +Is your to-day a better thing than was your yesterday?<br /> +Have you grown in knowledge, grace, and usefulness?<br /> +Or are you ravelling out the wonderful fabric knit by Time,<br /> +And throwing away the threads?<br /> +Make answer, O Woman! Average Woman of the Christian +world.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. Constable, +Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PURPOSE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 6618-h.htm or 6618-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/6/1/6618 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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