Poems of Experience Part 1

Poems of Experience.

by Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

THE EMPTY BOWL

I held the golden vessel of my soul And prayed that G.o.d would fill it from on high.

Day after day the importuning cry Grew stronger--grew, a heaven-accusing dole Because no sacred waters laved my bowl.

'So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou deny The little needed for a soul's supply?

I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.'

Then from the vast invisible Somewhere, A voice, as one love-authorised by Him, Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled.

'Who wants the waters must the bowl prepare; Pour out the self, that chokes it to the brim, But emptied vessels, from the source are filled.'

KEEP GOING

Is the goal distant, and troubled the road, And the way long?

And heavy your load?

Then gird up your courage, and say 'I am strong,'

And keep going.

Is the work weary, and endless the grind And petty the pay?

Then brace up your mind And say 'Something better is coming my way,'

And keep doing.

Is the drink bitter life pours in your cup - Is the taste gall?

Then smile and look up And say 'G.o.d is with me whatever befall,'

And keep trusting.

Is the heart heavy with hope long deferred, And with prayers that seem vain?

Keep saying the word - And that which you strive for you yet shall attain.

Keep praying.

A PRAYER

Just as I shape the purport of my thought, Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot.

Let each ill thought that in my heart may be, Mould circ.u.mstance and bring ill luck to me.

Until I weed the garden of my mind From all that is unworthy and unkind, Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord?

Then as I THINK, so must be my reward.

Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength, That which we plant, we gather in at length.

Great G.o.d of Justice, be Thou just to me, And as my thoughts, so let my future be.

THE LONDON 'BOBBY'

A TRIBUTE TO THE POLICEMEN OF ENGLAND'S CAPITAL

Here in my cosy corner, Before a blazing log, I'm thinking of cold London Wrapped in its killing fog; And, like a s.h.i.+ning beacon Above the picture grim, I see the London 'Bobby,'

And sing my song for him.

I see his stalwart figure, I see his kindly face, I hear his helpful answer At any hour or place.

For, though you seek some by-way Long miles from his own beat, He tells you all about it, And how to find the street.

He looks like some bold Viking, This king of earth's police - Yet in his voice lies feeling, And in his eye lies peace; He knows and does his duty - (What higher praise is there?) And London's lords and paupers Alike receive his care.

He has a regal bearing, Yet one that breathes repose; It is the look and manner Of one who THINKS and KNOWS.

Oh, men who govern nations, In old worlds or in new, Turn to the London 'Bobby'

And learn a thing or two.

READ AT THE BENEFIT OF CLARA MORRIS (AMERICA'S GREAT EMOTIONAL ACTRESS)

The Radiant Rulers of Mystic Regions Where souls of artists are fitted for birth Gathered together their lovely legions And fas.h.i.+oned a woman to s.h.i.+ne on earth.

They bathed her in splendour, They made her tender, They gave her a nature both sweet and wild; They gave her emotions like storm-stirred oceans, And they gave her the heart of a little child.

These Radiant Rulers (who are not human Nor yet divine like the G.o.ds above) Poured all their gifts in the soul of woman, That fragile vessel meant only for love.

Still more they taught her, Still more they brought her, Till they gave her the world for a harp one day: And they bade her string it, They bade her ring it, While the stars all wondered to hear her play.

She touched the strings in a master fas.h.i.+on, She uttered the cry of a world's despair: Its long hid secret, its pent-up pa.s.sion, She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.

For oh! the heart of her, That was the art of her.

Great with the feeling that makes men kin.

Art unapproachable, Art all uncoachable, Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.

The earth turns ever an ear unheeding To the sorrows of art, as it cries 'encore.'

And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding, And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.

She knew the trend of it, She knew the end of it - Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.

Bound to the altar Of art, could she falter?

Then came a silence--the music was still.

And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it; In waves unbroken it circles the earth: And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit A gleam from the centre that gave her birth.

Still is the fame of her Felt in the name of her - But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain; No hand has taken it, No hand can waken it - For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.

TWO GHOSTS