ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
THE POET OF HOPE
Around the year, through storm and shine,
My heart and soul in tune with thine,
Whether in paths of peace or pain
I can not take one step in vain,
Or ever murmur or repine.
No month has seemed to thee malign!
In each thou hast seen God's design.
Thy thoughts shall be of stars a chain
Around the year.
Ella Giles Ruddy
|Throw overboard useless regretting,
Or deeds which you can not undo,
And learn the great art of forgetting
Old things which embitter the new.
|All the aim of life is just
Getting back to God.
Spirit casting off its dust,
Getting back to God.
Every grief we have to bear,
Disappointment, cross, despair,
Each is but another stair,
Getting back to God.
|Severe of face, gaunt-armed and wildly dressed,
She is not fair nor beautiful to see;
But merry April and sweet, smiling May
Come not till March has first prepared the way.
|I tell you the future can hold no terrors
For any sad soul while the stars revolve,
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,
And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve!
|Love has so many ways of being sweet.
The timorous, rose-hued dawning of its reign
Before the senses waken; that dear pain
Of mingled doubt and certainty: the fleet
First moments when the clasped hands meet
In wordless eloquence; the loss and gain
When the strong billows from the deeper main
Submerge the valleys of the incomplete;
The restless passion rising into peace;
The growing beauty of two paths that blend
Into one perfect way. The glorious faith
That feels no fear of life's expiring lease;
And that majestic victory at the end
When love, unconquered, triumphs over death.
|Over the hilltops, the carpet of splendor
Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again.
Along the horizon the tints that were tender,
Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.
Only the mountains' high summits are hoary,
To the ice-fettered River, the Sun gives a key.
Once more the waiting shore lists to the story
Told by her wandering lover, the sea.
|After the May time and after the June time,
Rare with blossoms and odors sweet,
Cometh the round world's royal noon time,
The red midsummer of blazing heat,
When the sun, with an eye that never closes,
Bends on the earth its fervid gaze,
And the winds are still, and the crimson roses
Droop and wither, and die in its gaze.
|In Nature bright blossoms, not always reposes
That strange subtle essence, more rare than their bloom,
Which lies in the hearts of Carnations and Roses--
That unexplained something, by men called perfume.
Though modest the flower, yet great is its power,
And pregnant with meaning each pistil and leaf,
If only it hides there, if only abides there,
The fragrance suggestive of love, joy, and grief.
I will castMy August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I'll pluck the sober asters with good grace,
And call September nothing but September.
|I and my Soul are alone to-day,
All in the shining weather.
We were sick of the world, and we sent it away
So we could rejoice together.
Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky,
Is pouring a rare, sweet wine
In the burnished gold of his cup on high,
For me and this soul of mine.
And sitting here with my Soul alone,
Where the yellow sun rays fall,
Of all the friends I have ever known
I find it the best of all.
|If you pause at the City of Trouble
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient; the train will move onward,
And rush down the track of the years.
Whatever the place is you seek for,
Whatever your aim or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing
To the beautiful City of Rest.
|Slide bolts and turn keys on the portal
That shuts back intolerant strife.
Swing wider the doors to immortal
And beautiful precepts of life.
Then ring out old wrongs that are banished,
And ring in new truths that appear,
And speak well of the day that has vanished,
Since it led to the day that is here.
The Old Year.
|Old dreams? Let them go without sorrow.
Does the tree cling to leaves that are sere?
New joys shall be thine on the morrow,
As the tree finds new verdure each year.
Around the Year With Ella Wheeler Wilcox by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Tumwater, WA: The Ella Wheeler Wilcox Society, 2006.
Based on the printing by W.B. Conkey, 1904.