Ella Wheeler Wilcox - Poems of Passion
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POEMS OF PASSION
Illustrated
by
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
W. B. Conkey Company
Publishers--Chicago
1883
[Illustration: Picture of Ella Wheeler Wilcox]
* * * * * *
OTHER BOOKS
by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
THREE WOMEN
POEMS OF POWER
MAURINE
POEMS OF PASSION
POEMS OF PLEASURE
KINGDOM OF LOVE AND OTHER POEMS
AN ERRING WOMAN'S LOVE
EVERY-DAY THOUGHTS
MEN WOMEN AND EMOTIONS
AN AMBITIOUS MAN
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD
AROUND THE YEAR WITH ELLA
WHEELER WILCOX A Birthday Book
* * * * * *
_Oh, you who read some song that I have sung_,
_What know you of the soul from whence it sprung_?
_Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud_
_His secret thought unto the listening crowd_?
_Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore_:
_You have its shape, its color and no more_.
_It tells not one of those vast mysteries_
_That lie beneath the surface of the seas_.
_Our songs are shells, cast out by-waves of thought_;
_Here, take them at your pleasure; but think not_
_You've seen beneath the surface of the waves_,
_Where lie our shipwrecks and our coral caves_.
[Illustration: THE POET'S SONG]
PREFACE
Among the twelve hundred poems which have emanated from my too prolific
pen there are some forty or fifty which treat entirely of that emotion
which has been denominated "the grand passion"--love. A few of those are
of an extremely fiery character.
When I issued my collection known as "Maurine, and Other Poems," I
purposely omitted all save two or three of these. I had been frequently
accused of writing only sentimental verses; and I took pleasure and
pride in presenting to the public a volume which contained more than one
hundred poems upon other than sentimental topics. But no sooner was the
book published than letters of regret came to me from friends and
strangers, and from all quarters of the globe, asking why this or that
love poem had been omitted. These regrets were repeated to me by so many
people that I decided to collect and issue these poems in a small volume
to be called "Poems of Passion." By the word "Passion" I meant the
"grand passion" of love. To those who take exception to the title of the
book I would suggest an early reference to Webster's definitions of the
word.
Since this volume has caused so much agitation throughout the entire
country, and even sent a tremor across the Atlantic into the Old World,
I beg leave to make a few statements concerning some of the poems.
The excitement of mingled horror and amaze seems to center upon four
poems, namely: "Delilah," "Ad Finem," "Conversion," and "Communism."
"Delilah" was written and first published in 1877. I had been reading
history, and became stirred by the power of such women as Aspasia and
Cleopatra over such grand men as Antony, Socrates, and Pericles. Under
the influence of this feeling I dashed off "Delilah," which I meant to
be an expression of the powerful fascination of such a woman upon the
memory of a man, even as he neared the hour of death. If the poem is
immoral, then the history which inspired it is immoral. I consider it my
finest effort.
"Ad Finem" was written in 1878. I think there are few women of strong
character and affections who cannot, from either experience or
observation, understand the violent intensity of regret and despair
which sometimes takes possession of the human heart after the loss by
death, fate, or the force of circumstances, of some one very dear.
In "Ad Finem" I intended to give voice to this very common experience of
almost every heart. Many noble women have since told me that the poem
was true to life. It is not, as many people have wilfully or stupidly
construed it, a bit of poetical advice to womankind to "barter the joys
of Paradise" for "just one kiss." It is simply an illustration of a
moment of turbulent anguish and vehement despair, such moments of
unreasoning and overwhelming sorrow as the most moral people may
experience during a lifetime.
In "Communism" I endeavored to use a new simile in illustrating that
somewhat hackneyed theme of the supremacy of Love over Reason; and
simply to carry out my idea I represented the violent uprising of the
Communist emotions against King Reason.
"Conversion" was suggested to me by the remark of a gentleman friend. In
speaking to me of the woman he loved, he said: "I have always been a
skeptic regarding the existence of heaven, but I am so much happier in
my love for this woman than I ever supposed it possible for me to be on
earth that I begin to believe that the tales of heavenly raptures may be
true."
I embodied his idea in the poem which has brought, with a few others, so
much censure and criticism upon this volume, although it contains nearly
seventy-five other selections quite irreproachable in character, however
faulty they may be in construction.
It is impossible to pursue a successful literary career and follow the
advice of all one's "best friends." I have received severe censure from
my orthodox friends for writing liberal verses. My liberal friends
condemn my devout and religious poems as "aiding superstition." My early
temperance verses were pronounced "fanatical trash" by others.
With all due thanks and appreciation for the kind motives which interest
so many dear friends in my career, I yet feel compelled to follow the
light which my own intellect and judgment cast upon my way, rather than
any one of the many conflicting rays which other minds would lend me.
ELLA WHEELER.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
CONTENTS
POEMS OF PASSION
Love's Language
Impatience
Communism
The Common Lot
Individuality
Friendship after Love
Queries
Upon the Sand
Reunited
What Shall We Do?
"The Beautiful Blue Danube"
Answered
Through the Valley
But One
Guilo
The Duet
Little Queen
Wherefore?
Delilah
Love Song
Time and Love
Change
Desolation
Isaura
The Coquette
Not Quite the Same
New and Old
From the Grave
A Waltz-Quadrille
Beppo
Tired
The Speech of Silence
Conversion
Love's Coming
Old and New
Perfectness
Attraction
Gracia
Ad Finem
Bleak Weather
An Answer
You Will Forget Me
The Farewell of Clarimonde
The Trio
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
The Lost Garden
Art and Heart
Mockery
As by Fire
If I Should Die
Mesalliance
Response
Drought
The Creed
Progress
My Friend
Creation
Red Carnations
Life is Too Short
A Sculptor
Beyond
The Saddest Hour
Show Me the Way
My Heritage
Resolve
At Eleusis
Courage
Solitude
The Year Outgrows the Spring
The Beautiful Land of Nod
The Tiger
Only a Simple Rhyme
I Will Be Worthy of It
Sonnet
Regret
Let Me Lean Hard
Penalty
Sunset
The Wheel of the Breast
A Meeting
Earnestness
A Picture
Twin-Born
Floods
A Fable
[Illustration: LOVE AND MEMORY]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Poets Song
Love and Memory
Rejoice and Men Will Seek You
Loves Language
Love's Impatience
The Common Lot
Love Triumphant
Cool, Verdant Vales
The Old Delight that We Cast Away
They Drift Down the Hall Together
Answered
But One
A June Rose
I Love Thee; Thee Alone
The Duet
Happiest Days in Our Lives
A Dream
Delilah
The Milky Way
Time and Love
Desolation
Tired of the Oft-read Story
From the Grave
Silver Bell in Steeple
The Waltz-Quadrille
The Burden of Dear Human Ties
The Sea of Silence
Across the Ocean
Conversion
Love's Coming
Love and Life
Attraction
Bleak Weather
Woodlands and Meadows
Two Warm Hearts Together
Love is Cold
The Trio
The Path I Longed to Climb
Recollections
Mesalliance
Day-Dreams
Came, Desired and Welcomed, into Life
Creation
Red Carnations
Beyond
Across the Sea of Silence
Solitude
Light and Beauty Blessed the Land
Beautiful Land of Nod
Only a Simple Rhyme
The Strife that Is Wearying Me
Sunset
The Wheel of the Breast
A Picture
A Fable
POEMS OF PASSION
[Illustration: "REJOICE, AND MEN WILL SEEK YOU"]
LOVE'S LANGUAGE.
How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye--
The smile that proves the patent to a sigh--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift force--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek--
The sudden silence and reserve when near--
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear--
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast,
And knows and names and greets its godlike guest--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek--
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one beloved face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins
Between the shores of keen delight and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss--
Thus doth Love speak.
[Illustration: LOVE'S LANGUAGE]
IMPATIENCE.
How can I wait until you come to me?
The once fleet mornings linger by the way,
Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee
At my unrest; they seem to pause, and play
Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours
Refused to pause or loiter with me long;
But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer blooms, not heeding my one song,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;
They reach forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;
And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast upon your face, I no more sing,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? The morning breaks the spell
A pitying night has flung upon my soul.
You are not near me, and I know full well
My heart has need of patience and control;
Before we meet, hours, days, and weeks must roll.
How can I wait?
How can I wait? Oh, love, how can I wait
Until the sunlight of your eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems so desolate?
Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;
Until you come again, oh, love of mine,
How can I wait?
COMMUNISM.
When my blood flows calm as a purling river,
When my heart is asleep and my brain has sway,
It is then that I vow we must part forever,
That I will forget you, and put you away
Out of my life, as a dream is banished
Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes;
That I know it will be, when the spell has vanished,
Better for both of our sakes.
When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason,
I know it is wiser for us to part;
But Love is a spy who is plotting treason,
In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
They whisper to me that the King is cruel,
That his reign is wicked, his law a sin;
And every word they utter is fuel
To the flame that smoulders within.
And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot
With the fever of youth and its mad desires,
When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet,
When my breast seems the centre of lava-fires,
Oh, then is the time when most I miss you,
And I swear by the stars and my soul and say
That I will have you and hold you and kiss you,
Though the whole world stands in the way.
And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal,
My fierce emotions roam out of their lair;
They hate King Reason for being royal;
They would fire his castle, and burn him there.
Oh, Love! they would clasp you and crush you and kill you,
In the insurrection of uncontrol.
Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you
That is raging in my soul?
THE COMMON LOT.
It is a common fate--a woman's lot--
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your eyes and wait
For some response to my fond gaze and touch,
It seems to me there is no sadder fate
Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.
Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind--
So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true.
Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind,
Know that I am not loved as I love you.
One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
Will fill my soul with music and with song;
And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong.
And oftentimes you think me childish--weak--
When at some thoughtless word the tears will start;
You cannot understand how aught you speak
Has power to stir the depths of my poor heart.
I cannot help it, dear,--I wish I could,
Or feign indifference where I now adore;
For if I seemed to love you less you would,
Manlike, I have no doubt, love me the more.
'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
A constant heart; for fact doth daily prove
That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
While fickle natures win the deeper love.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration: COMMON LOT]
INDIVIDUALITY.
O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
Just as a weaker woman loves her own,
Better than I love my beloved art,
Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone,
My king, my master. Since I saw your face
I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.
I am as weak as other women are:
Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb;
Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far.
Sometimes I think there is not space or room
In all the earth for such a love as mine,
And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.
I know that your desertion or neglect
Could break my heart, as women's hearts do break.
If my wan days had nothing to expect
From your love's splendor, all joy would forsake
The chambers of my soul. Yes, this is true.
And yet, and yet--one thing I keep from you.
There is a subtle part of me, which went
Into my long pursued and worshipped art;
Though your great love fills me with such content
No other love finds room now, in my heart.
Yet that rare essence was my art's alone.
Thank God, you cannot grasp it; 'tis mine own.
Thank God, I say, for while I love you so,
With that vast love, as passionate as tender,
I feel an exultation as I know
I have not made you a complete surrender.
Here is my body; bruise it, if you will,
And break my heart; I have that _something_ still.
You cannot grasp it. Seize the breath of morn
Or bind the perfume of the rose, as well.
God put it in my soul when I was born;
It is not mine to give away, or sell,
Or offer up on any altar shrine.
It was my art's; and when not art's, 'tis mine,
For love's sake I can put the art away,
Or anything which stands 'twixt me and you.
But that strange essence God bestowed, I say,
To permeate the work He gave to do:
And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent
Through any channel save the one He meant.
FRIENDSHIP AFTER LOVE.
After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days,
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes and torments and desires,
Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
QUERIES.
Well, how has it been with you since we met
That last strange time of a hundred times?
When we met to swear that we could forget--
I your caresses, and you my rhymes--
The rhyme of my lays that rang like a bell,
And the rhyme of my heart with yours, as well?
How has it been since we drank that last kiss,
That was bitter with lees of the wasted wine,
When the tattered remains of a threadbare bliss,
And the worn-out shreds of a joy divine,
With a year's best dreams and hopes, were cast
Into the rag-bag of the Past?
Since Time, the rag-buyer, hurried away,
With a chuckle of glee at a bargain made,
Did you discover, like me, one day,
That, hid in the folds of those garments frayed,
Were priceless jewels and diadems--
The soul's best treasures, the heart's best gems?
Have you, too, found that you could not supply
The place of those jewels so rare and chaste?
Do all that you borrow or beg or buy
Prove to be nothing but skilful paste?
Have you found pleasure, as I found art,
Not all-sufficient to fill your heart?
Do you sometimes sigh for the tattered shreds
Of the old delight that we cast away,
And find no worth in the silken threads
Of newer fabrics we wear to-day?
Have you thought the bitter of that last kiss
Better than sweets of a later bliss?
What idle queries!--or yes or no--
Whatever your answer, I understand
That there is no pathway by which we can go
Back to the dead past's wonderland;
And the gems he purchased from me, from you,
There is no rebuying from Time, the Jew.
[Illustration: "THE OLD DELIGHT THAT WE CAST AWAY"]
UPON THE SAND.
All love that has not friendship for its base
Is like a mansion built upon the sand.
Though brave its walls as any in the land,
And its tall turrets lift their heads in grace;
Though skilful and accomplished artists trace
Most beautiful designs on every hand,
And gleaming statues in dim niches stand,
And fountains play in some flow'r-hidden place:
Yet, when from the frowning east a sudden gust
Of adverse fate is blown, or sad rains fall,
Day in, day out, against its yielding wall,
Lo! the fair structure crumbles to the dust.
Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe,
Needs friendship's solid mason-work below.
REUNITED.
Let us begin, dear love, where we left off;
Tie up the broken threads of that old dream,
And go on happy as before, and seem
Lovers again, though all the world may scoff.
Let us forget the graves which lie between
Our parting and our meeting, and the tears
That rusted out the gold-work of the years,
The frosts that fell upon our gardens green.
Let us forget the cold, malicious Fate
Who made our loving hearts her idle toys,
And once more revel in the old sweet joys
Of happy love. Nay, it is not too late!
Forget the deep-ploughed furrows in my brow;
Forget the silver gleaming in my hair;
Look only in my eyes! Oh! darling, there
The old love shone no warmer then than now.
Down in the tender deeps of thy dear eyes
I find the lost sweet memory of my youth,
Bright with the holy radiance of thy truth,
And hallowed with the blue of summer skies.
Tie up the broken threads and let us go,
Like reunited lovers, hand in hand,
Back, and yet onward, to the sunny land
Of our To Be, which was our Long Ago.
WHAT SHALL WE DO?
Here now forevermore our lives must part.
My path leads there, and yours another way.
What shall we do with this fond love, dear heart?
It grows a heavier burden day by day.
Hide it? In all earth's caverns, void and vast,
There is not room enough to hide it, dear;
Not even the mighty storehouse of the past
Could cover it from our own eyes, I fear.
Drown it? Why, were the contents of each ocean
Merged into one great sea, too shallow then
Would be its waters to sink this emotion
So deep it could not rise to life again.
Burn it? In all the furnace flames below,
It would not in a thousand years expire.
Nay! it would thrive, exult, expand, and grow,
For from its very birth it fed on fire.
Starve it? Yes, yes, that is the only way.
Give it no food, of glance, or word, or sigh;
No memories, even, of any bygone day;
No crumbs of vain regrets--so let it die.
"THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE."
They drift down the hall together;
He smiles in her lifted eyes;
Like waves of that mighty river,
The strains of the "Danube" rise.
They float on its rhythmic measure
Like leaves on a summer-stream;
And here, in this scene of pleasure,
I bury my sweet, dead dream.
Through the cloud of her dusky tresses,
Like a star, shines out her face,
And the form his strong arm presses
Is sylph like in its grace.
As a leaf on the bounding river
Is lost in the seething sea,
I know that forever and ever
My dream is lost to me.
And still the viols are playing
That grand old wordless rhyme;
And still those two ate swaying
In perfect tune and time.
If the great bassoons that mutter,
If the clarinets that blow,
Were given a voice to utter
The secret things they know,
Would the lists of the slam who slumber
On the Danube's battle-plains
The unknown hosts outnumber
Who die 'neath the "Danube's" strains?
Those fall where cannons rattle,
'Mid the rain of shot and shell;
But these, in a fiercer battle,
Find death in the music's swell.
With the river's roar of passion
Is blended the dying groan;
But here, in the halls of fashion,
Hearts break, and make no moan.
And the music, swelling and sweeping,
Like the river, knows it all;
But none are counting or keeping
The lists of these who fall.
[Illustration: "THEY DRIFT DOWN THE HALL TOGETHER"]
ANSWERED.
Good-bye--yes, I am going.
Sudden? Well, you are right;
But a startling truth came home to me
With sudden force last night.
What is it? Shall I tell you?
Nay, that is why I go.
I am running away from the battlefield
Turning my back on the foe.
Riddles? You think me cruel!
Have you not been most kind?
Why, when you question me like that,
What answer can I find?
You fear you failed to amuse me,
Your husband's friend and guest,
Whom he bade you entertain and please--
Well, you have done your best.
Then why am I going?
A friend of mine abroad,
Whose theories I have been acting upon,
Has proven himself a fraud.
You have heard me quote from Plato
A thousand times no doubt;
Well, I have discovered he did not know
What he was talking about.
You think I am speaking strangely?
You cannot understand?
Well, let me look down into your eyes,
And let me take your hand.
I am running away from danger;
I am flying before I fall;
I am going because with heart and soul
I love you--that is all.
There, now you are white with anger;
I knew it would be so.
You should not question a man too close
When he tells you he must go.
