I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. I can tell of manhood debased by you, That I have uplifted and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the wine-chained captive free, And all are better for knowing me. We were so fond, So very fond a little while ago. With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond, When we should dwell together as one heart, And scarce could wait that happy time to come.
Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart. How was it that love died? I do not know. I only know that all its grace untold Has faded into gray! I miss the gold From our dull skies; but did not see it go.
Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; We thought of nothing else when it was ours; We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers: It was our all; why could it not endure? Alas, we know not how, or when, or why This dear thing died. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other's sigh. How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other's eyes this way And know love's gone forever, as we do.
Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earth And see love's flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart. I've known loves without number - True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died. Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And--yes, I've seen him yawn. So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.
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We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year. For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose. We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night. And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendour, We'll take him back again.
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And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee! When thy gaze Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe. But when it falls upon a fellow-man Let kindliness control it; and refrain From that belittling censure that springs forth From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.
Life holds no thing to be anticipated, And I am sad from being satisfied. The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain Has left me now the highest point is gained. The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountain Was sweeter than the waters were when drained. The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, And which I purchased with my youth and strength, Pleased me a moment.
But the empty treasure Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length. And love, all glowing with a golden glory, Delighted me a season with its tale.
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It pleased the longest, but at last the story, So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale. I lived for self, and all I asked was given, I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, No other punishment designed by Heaven Could strike me half so forcibly as this. I feel no sense of aught but enervation In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, And know no wish but for annihilation, Since that would give me freedom from the thought Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.
For him there is a hope not yet completed; For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain. But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, But sick and sated with complete fruition, Keeps not the pleasure even of despair. Her heart that once had been a cup well filled With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall, She knew was empty; though it had not spilled Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all. She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, And saw her soul's bright armour red with rust, And knew that all the riches of her youth Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.
Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, Made her cry out that she was ever born To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate. IF Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world; If we could dwell there, ever more alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place; If Winter never visited that land, And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twined boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers; If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me - Ah!
But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is commonplace and workaday, As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old; Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, 'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.
He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me. Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say. Wings of dead white butterflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair. With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eyelids close.
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Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves--you understand. Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall - As we kneel by him and say, "Dreams to dreams," and turn away. Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust, They will lower him to the dust. Let us part here with a kiss - You go that way, I go this. Since we buried Love to-day We will walk a separate way. Even so, I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes - 'Twas thine own hand which dealt dear Love's death-blow.
I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then Thy heart was like a covered golden cup Always above my eager lip held up. I fancied thou wert not as other men. I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine, Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.
Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled Its precious contents. Even to the lees Were offered to me, saying, "Drink of these! No word was left unsaid, no act undone, To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save One little drop of that sweet wine--but one - I still had loved thee, longing for it then.
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Maurine and Other Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Ella Wheeler Wilcox Publisher: English View all editions and formats Rating: Subjects Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, -- More like this Similar Items. Find a copy online Links to this item hdl. Allow this favorite library to be seen by others Keep this favorite library private. Find a copy in the library Finding libraries that hold this item Details Additional Physical Format: Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, Internet resource Document Type: Ella Wheeler Wilcox Find more information about: Reviews User-contributed reviews Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers.
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