ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

Author of "Poems of Passion," "Maurine," "Poems of Pleasure,"

"How Salvator Won," "The Beautiful Land of Nod,"

"An Erring Woman's Love," "Men, Women

"and Emotions," Etc.

Published 1896,

By

W. B. CONKEY COMPANY.

CHICAGO

Preface.

"Let such teach others, who themselves excel,

And censure freely who have written well."

The World's Need

So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind, Is all the sad world needs.

High Noon

Time's finger on the dial of my life Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark, Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light. Long life is sadder than an early death. We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink How brief the past, the future still more brief, Calls on to action, action! Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Have I done nobly? Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame. Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn. Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls So pity may shine through them.

Looking back, My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones That led the way to knowledge of the truth And made me value virtue; sorrows shine In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years, Where lie forgotten pleasures.

Looking forth, Out to the western sky still bright with noon, I feel well spurred and booted for the strife That ends not till Nirvana is attained.

Battling with fate, with men and with myself, Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon, Three things I learned, three things of precious worth To guide and help me down the western slope. I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save. To pray for courage to receive what comes, Knowing what comes to be divinely sent. To toil for universal good, since thus And only thus can good come unto me. To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have To those who have not, this alone is gain.

Transformation

She waited in a rose-hued room; A wanton-hearted creature she, But beautiful and bright to see As some great orchid just in bloom.

Upon wide cushions stretched at ease She lolled in garments filmy fine, Which but enhanced each rounded line; A living picture, framed to please.

A bold electric eye of light Leered through its ruddy screen of lace And feasted on her form and face As some wine-crimsoned roué might.

From wall and niche, nude nymph beguiled Fair goddesses of world-wide fame, But Psyche's self was put to shame By one who from the cushions smiled.

Exotic blossoms from a vase Their sweet narcotic breath exhaled; The lights, the objects round her paled— She lost the sense of time and place.

She seemed to float upon the air, Untrammeled, unrestricted, free; And rising from a vapory sea She saw a form divinely fair.

A beauteous being in whose face Shone all things sweet and true and good. The innocence of maidenhood, The motherhood of all the race.

The warmth which comes from heavenly fire, The strength which leads the weaker man To climb to God's Eternal plan And conquer and control desire.

She shook as with a mighty awe, For, gazing on this shape which stood Embodying all true womanhood, She knew it was herself she saw.

She woke as from a dream. But when The laughing lover, light and bold Came with his talk of wine and gold He gazed, grew silent, gazed again;

Then turned abashed from those calm eyes Where lurked no more the lure to sin. Her higher self had entered in, Her path led now to Paradise.

Thought-Magnets

With each strong thought, with every earnest longing For aught thou deemest needful to thy soul, Invisible vast forces are set thronging Between thee and that goal.

'Tis only when some hidden weakness alters And changes thy desire, or makes it less, That this mysterious army ever falters Or stops short of success.

Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel; And its attainment hangs but on the measure Of what thy soul can feel.

Smiles

Smile a little, smile a little, As you go along, Not alone when life is pleasant, But when things go wrong. Care delights to see you frowning, Loves to hear you sigh; Turn a smiling face upon her, Quick the dame will fly.

Smile a little, smile a little, All along the road; Every life must have its burden, Every heart its load. Why sit down in gloom and darkness, With your grief to sup? As you drink Fate's bitter tonic, Smile across the cup.

Smile upon the troubled pilgrims Whom you pass and meet; Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms Oft for weary feet. Do not make the way seem harder By a sullen face, Smile a little, smile a little, Brighten up the place.

Smile upon your undone labor; Not for one who grieves O'er his task, waits wealth or glory; He who smiles achieves. Though you meet with loss and sorrow In the passing years, Smile a little, smile a little, Even through your tears.

The Undiscovered Country

Man has explored all countries and all lands, And made his own the secrets of each clime. Now, ere the world has fully reached its prime, The oval earth lies compassed with steel bands; The seas are slaves to ships that touch all strands, And even the haughty elements sublime And bold, yield him their secrets for all time, And speed like lackeys forth at his commands.

Still, though he search from shore to distant shore, And no strange realms, no unlocated plains Are left for his attainment and control, Yet is there one more kingdom to explore. Go, know thyself, O man! there yet remains The undiscovered country of thy soul!

The Universal Route

As we journey along, with a laugh and a song, We see, on youth's flower-decked slope, Like a beacon of light, shining fair on the sight, The beautiful Station of Hope.

But the wheels of old Time roll along as we climb, And our youth speeds away on the years; And with hearts that are numb with life's sorrows we come To the mist-covered Station of Tears.

Still onward we pass, where the milestones, alas! Are the tombs of our dead, to the West, Where glitters and gleams, in the dying sunbeams, The sweet, silent Station of Rest.

All rest is but change, and no grave can estrange The soul from its Parent above; And, scorning the rod, it soars back to its God, To the limitless City of Love.

Earthly Pride

How baseless is the mightiest earthly pride, The diamond is but charcoal purified, The lordliest pearl that decks a monarch's breast Is but an insect's sepulchre at best.