Home
  By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon


We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Poems of Purpose
Author: Wilcox, Ella Wheeler
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Poems of Purpose" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]



                             POEMS OF PURPOSE


                                    BY
                           ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                          GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
                    54 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
                                  LONDON
                                   1919

                          _All rights reserved_



CONTENTS

                                        PAGE
   A Good Sport                            1
   A Son Speaks                            5
   The Younger Born                        9
   Happiness                              14
   Seeking for Happiness                  18
   The Island of Endless Play             20
   The River of Sleep                     23
   The Things that Count                  25
   Limitless                              27
   What They Saw                          28
   The Convention                         32
   Protest                                35
   A Bachelor to a Married Flirt          37
   The Superwoman                         40
   Certitude                              43
   Compassion                             44
   Love                                   45
   Three Souls                            46
   When Love is Lost                      49
   Occupation                             50
   The Valley of Fear                     53
   What would it be?                      55
   America                                57
   War Mothers                            60
   A Holiday                              64
   The Undertone                          66
   Gypsying                               69
   Song of the Road                       71
   The Faith we Need                      73
   The Price he Paid                      76
   Divorced                               79
   The Revealing Angels                   83
   The Well-born                          87
   Sisters of Mine                        89
   Answer                                 91
   The Graduates                          93
   The Silent Tragedy                     95
   The Trinity                            99
   The Unwed Mother to the Wife          101
   Father and Son                        104
   Husks                                 107
   Meditations                           109
   The Traveller                         113
   What Have You Done?                   115

                                * * * * *

N.B.—_The only volumes of my Poems issued with my approval in the British
Empire are published by Messrs. Gay & Hancock_.

                                                    _ELLA WHEELER WILCOX_.



A GOOD SPORT


   I WAS a little lad, and the older boys called to me from the pier:
   They called to me: ‘Be a sport: be a sport!  Leap in and swim!’
   I leaped in and swam, though I had never been taught a stroke.
   Then I was made a hero, and they all shouted:
      ‘Well done!  Well done,
   Brave boy, you are a sport, a good sport!’
   And I was very glad.

   But now I wish I had learned to swim the right way,
   Now I regret that day,
      For it led to my fall.

   I was a youth, and I heard the older men talking of the road to
   wealth;
   They talked of bulls and bears, of buying on margins,
   And they said, ‘Be a sport, my boy, plunge in and win or lose it all!
   It is the only way to fortune.’
   So I plunged in and won; and the older men patted me on the back,
   And they said, ‘You are a sport, my boy, a good sport!’
   And I was very glad.

   But now I wish I had lost all I ventured on that day—
      Yes, wish I had lost it all.
   For it was the wrong way,
      And pushed me to my fall.

   I was a young man, and the gay world called me to come;
   Gay women and gay men called to me, crying:
      ‘Be a sport; be a good sport!
   Fill our glasses and let us fill yours.
   We are young but once; let us dance and sing,
   And drive the dull hours of night until they stand at bay
   Against the shining bayonets of day.’
   So I filled my glass, and I filled their glasses, over and over again,
   And I sang and danced and drank, and drank and danced and sang,
   And I heard them cry, ‘He is a sport, a good sport!’
   As they held their glasses out to be filled again.
   And I was very glad.

   Oh the madness of youth and song and dance and wine,
   Of woman’s eyes and lips, when the night dies in the arms of dawn!
   And now I wish I had not gone that way.
   Now I wish I had not heard them say,
   ‘He is a sport, a good sport!’
   For I am old who should be young.
   The splendid vigour of my youth I flung
   Under the feet of a mad, unthinking throng.
   My strength went out with wine and dance and song;
   Unto the winds of earth I tossed like chaff,
   With idle jest and laugh,
   The pride of splendid manhood, all its wealth
   Of unused power and health—
   Its dream of looking into some pure girl’s eyes
   And finding there its earthly paradise—
   Its hope of virile children free from blight—
   Its thoughts of climbing to some noble height
   Of great achievement—all these gifts divine
   I cast away for song and dance and wine.
   Oh, I have been a sport, a good sport;
   But I am very sad.



A SON SPEAKS


   MOTHER, sit down, for I have much to say
   Anent this widespread ever-growing theme
   Of woman and her virtues and her rights.

   I left you for the large, loud world of men,
   When I had lived one little score of years.
   I judged all women by you, and my heart
   Was filled with high esteem and reverence
   For your angelic sex; and for the wives,
   The sisters, daughters, mothers of my friends
   I held but holy thoughts.  To fallen stars
   (Of whom you told me in our last sweet talk,
   Warning me of the dangers in my path)
   I gave wide pity as you bade me to,
   Saying their sins harked back to my base sex.

   Now listen, mother mine: Ten years have passed
   Since that clean-minded and pure-bodied youth,
   Thinking to write his name upon the stars,
   Went from your presence.  He returns to you
   Fallen from his altitude of thought,
   Hiding deep scars of sins upon his soul,
   His fair illusions shattered and destroyed.
   And would you know the story of his fall?

   He sat beside a good man’s honoured wife
   At her own table.  She was beautiful
   As woods in early autumn.  Full of soft
   And subtle witcheries of voice and look—
   His senior, both in knowledge and in years.

   The boyish admiration of his glance
   Was white as April sunlight when it falls
   Upon a blooming tree, until she leaned
   So close her rounded body sent quick thrills
   Along his nerves.  He thought it accident,
   And moved a little; soon she leaned again.
   The half-hid beauties of her heaving breast
   Rising and falling under scented lace,
   The teasing tendrils of her fragrant hair,
   With intermittent touches on his cheek,
   Changed the boy’s interest to a man’s desire.
   She saw that first young madness in his eyes
   And smiled and fanned the flame.  That was his fall;
   And as some mangled fly may crawl away
   And leave his wings behind him in the web,
   So were his wings of faith in womanhood
   Left in the meshes of her sensuous net.

   The youth, forced into sudden manhood, went
   Seeking the lost ideal of his dreams.
   He met, in churches and in drawing-rooms,
   Women who wore the mask of innocence
   And basked in public favour, yet who seemed
   To find their pleasure playing with men’s hearts,
   As children play with loaded guns.  He heard
   (Until the tale fell dull upon his ears)
   The unsolicited complaints of wives
   And mothers all unsatisfied with life,
   While crowned with every blessing earth can give
   Longing for God knows what to bring content,
   And openly or with appealing look
   Asking for sympathy.  (The first blind step
   That leads from wifely honour down to shame,
   Is ofttimes hid with flowers of sympathy.)

   He saw proud women who would flush and pale
   With sense of outraged modesty if one
   Spoke of the ancient sin before them, bare
   To all men’s sight, or flimsily conceal
   By veils that bid adventurous eyes proceed,
   Charms meant alone for lover and for child.
   He saw chaste virgins tempt and tantalise,
   Lure and deny, invite—and then refuse,
   And drive men forth half crazed to wantons’ arms.

   Mother, you taught me there were but two kinds
   Of women in the world—the good and bad.
   But you have been too sheltered in the safe,
   Old-fashioned sweetness of your quiet life,
   To know how women of these modern days
   Make licence of their new-found liberty.
   Why, I have been more tempted and more shocked
   By belles and beauties in the social whirl,
   By trusted wives and mothers in their homes,
   Than by the women of the underworld
   Who sell their favours.  Do you think me mad?
   No, mother; I am sane, but very sad.

   I miss my boyhood’s faith in woman’s worth—
   Torn from my heart, by ‘good folks’ of the earth.



THE YOUNGER BORN


The modern English-speaking young girl is the astonishment of the world
and the despair of the older generation.  Nothing like her has ever been
seen or heard before.  Alike in drawing-rooms and the amusement places of
the people, she defies conventions in dress, speech, and conduct.  She is
bold, yet not immoral.  She is immodest, yet she is chaste.  She has no
ideals, yet she is kind and generous.  She is an anomaly and a paradox.

   _WE are the little daughters of Time and the World his wife_,
   _We are not like the children_, _born in their younger life_,
   _We are marred with our mother’s follies and torn with our father’s
   strife_.

   We are the little daughters of the modern world,
   And Time, her spouse.
   She has brought many children to our father’s house
   Before we came, when both our parents were content

   With simple pleasures and with quiet homely ways.
      Modest and mild
   Were the fair daughters born to them in those fair days,
      Modest and mild.

   _But Father Time grew restless and longed for a swifter pace_,
   _And our mother pushed out beside him at the cost of her tender
   grace_,
   _And life was no more living but just a headlong race_.

   And we are wild—
   Yea, wild are we, the younger born of the World
      Into life’s vortex hurled.
   With the milk of our mother’s breast
   We drank her own unrest,
      And we learned our speech from Time
      Who scoffs at the things sublime.
   Time and the World have hurried so
   They could not help their younger born to grow;
   We only follow, follow where they go.

   _They left their high ideals behind them as they ran_;
   _There was but one goal_, _pleasure_, _for Woman or for Man_,
   _And they robbed the nights of slumber to lengthen the days’ brief
   span_.

   We are the demi-virgins of the modern day;
      All evil on the earth is known to us in thought,
      But yet we do it not.
      We bare our beauteous bodies to the gaze of men,
      We lure them, tempt them, lead them on, and then
   Lightly we turn away.
   By strong compelling passion we are never stirred;
   To us it is a word—
   A word much used when tragic tales are told;
   We are the younger born, yet we are very old
   In understanding, and our knowledge makes us bold.
   Boldly we look at life,
   Loving its stress and strife,
   And hating all conventions that may mean restraint,
   Yet shunning sin’s black taint.

   We know wine’s taste;
      And the young-maiden bloom and sweetness of our lips
      Is often in eclipse
      Under the brown weed’s stain.
   Yet we are chaste;
      We have no large capacity for joy or pain,
   But an insatiable appetite for pleasure.
   We have no use for leisure
   And never learned the meaning of that word ‘repose.’
   Life as it goes
   Must spell excitement for us, be the cost what may.
   Speeding along the way,

   We ofttimes pause to do some generous little deed,
   And fill the cup of need;
   For we are kind at heart,
      Though with less heart than head,
      Unmoral, not immoral, when the worst is said;
   We are the product of the modern day.

   _We are the little daughters of Time and the World his wife_,
   _We are not like the children_, _born in their younger life_,
   _We are marred with our mother’s follies and torn with our father’s
   strife_.



HAPPINESS


   _THERE are so many little things that make life beautiful_.
   I can recall a day in early youth when I was longing for happiness.
   Toward the western hills I gazed, watching for its approach.
   The hills lay between me and the setting sun, and over them led a
   highway.
   When some traveller crossed the hill, always a fine grey dust rose
   cloudless against the sky.
   The traveller I could not distinguish, but the dust-cloud I could see.

   And the dust-cloud seemed formed of hopes and possibilities—each speck
   an embryo event.
   At sunset, when the skies were fair, the dust-cloud grew radiant and
   shone with visions.
   The happiness for which I waited came not to me adown that western
   slope,
   But now I can recall the cloud of golden dust, the sunset, and the
   highway leading over the hill,
   The wonderful hope and expectancy of my heart, the visions of youth in
   my eyes; and I know this was happiness.

   _There are so many little things that make life beautiful_.
   I can recall another day when I rebelled at life’s monotony.
   Everywhere about me was the commonplace; and nothing seemed to happen.
   Each day was like its yesterday, and to-morrow gave no promise of
   change.
   My young heart rose rebellious in my breast; and I ran aimlessly into
   the sunlight—the glowing sunlight of June.
   I sent out a dumb cry to Fate, demanding larger joys and more delight.
   I ran blindly into a field of blooming clover.
   It was breast-high, and billowed about me like rose-red waves of a
   fragrant sea.

   The bees were singing above it; and their little brown bodies were
   loaded with honey-dew, extracted from the clover blossoms.
   The sun reeled in the heavens dizzy with its own splendour.
   The day went into night, without bringing any new event to change my
   life.
   But now I recall the field of blooming clover, and the honey-laden
   bees, the glorious June sunlight, and the passion of youth in my
   heart; and I know that was happiness.

   _There are so many little things that make life beautiful_.
   Yesterday a failure stared me in the face, where I had thought to
   welcome proud success.
   There was no radiant cloud of dust against the western sky, and no
   clover field lying fragrant under mid-June suns,
   Neither was youth with me any more.

   But under the vines that clung against my walls, a flock of birds
   sought shelter just at twilight;
   And, standing at my casement, I could hear the twitter of their voices
   and the soft, sweet flutter of their wings.
   Then over me there fell a sense of peace and calm, and love for all
   created things, and trust illimitable.

   And that I knew was happiness.

   _There are so many little things to make life beautiful_.



SEEKING FOR HAPPINESS


   SEEKING for happiness we must go slowly;
      The road leads not down avenues of haste;
   But often gently winds through by ways lowly,
      Whose hidden pleasures are serene and chaste
   Seeking for happiness we must take heed
   Of simple joys that are not found in speed.

   Eager for noon-time’s large effulgent splendour,
      Too oft we miss the beauty of the dawn,
   Which tiptoes by us, evanescent, tender,
      Its pure delights unrecognised till gone.
   Seeking for happiness we needs must care
   For all the little things that make life fair.

   Dreaming of future pleasures and achievements
      We must not let to-day starve at our door;
   Nor wait till after losses and bereavements
      Before we count the riches in our store.
   Seeking for happiness we must prize this—
   Not what will be, or was, but that which _is_.

   In simple pathways hand in hand with duty
      (With faith and love, too, ever at her side),
   May happiness be met in all her beauty
      The while we search for her both far and wide.
   Seeking for happiness we find the way
   Doing the things we ought to do each day.



THE ISLAND OF ENDLESS PLAY


   SAID Willie to Tom, ‘Let us hie away
   To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.

   It lies off the border of “No School Land,”
   And abounds with pleasure, I understand.

   There boys go swimming whenever they please
   In a lovely river right under the trees.

   And marbles are free, so you need not buy;
   And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.

   We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight—
   We sail and we sail for a day and a night.

   And then, if favoured by billows and breeze,
   We land in the Harbour of Do-as-You-Please.

   And there lies the Island of Endless Play,
   With no one to say to us, Must, or Nay.

   Books are not known in that land so fair,
   Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.

   Hurrah for the Island, so glad and free,
   That is the country for you and me.’

   So away went Willie and Tom together
   On a pleasure boat, in the lazy weather,
   And they sailed in the teeth of a friendly breeze
   Right into the harbour of ‘Do-as-You-Please.’
   Where boats and tackle and marbles and kites
   Were waiting them there in this Land of Delights.
   They dwelt on the Island of Endless Play
   For five long years; then one sad day
   A strange, dark ship sailed up to the strand,
   And ‘Ho! for the voyage to Stupid Land,’
   The captain cried, with a terrible noise,
   As he seized the frightened and struggling boys
   And threw them into the dark ship’s hold;
   And off and away sailed the captain bold.
   They vainly begged him to let them out,
   He answered only with scoff and shout.
   ‘Boys that don’t study or work,’ said he,
   ‘Must sail one day down the Ignorant Sea
   To Stupid Land by the No-Book Strait,
   With Captain Time on the Pitiless Fate.’

   He let out the sails and away went the three
   Over the waters of Ignorant Sea,
   Out and away to Stupid Land;
   And they live there yet, I understand.
   And there’s where every one goes, they say,
   Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.



THE RIVER OF SLEEP


   THERE are curious isles in the River of Sleep,
      Curious isles without number.
   We’ll visit them all as we leisurely creep
   Down the winding stream whose current is deep,
      In our beautiful barge of Slumber.

   The very first isle in this wonderful stream
      Quite close to the shore is lying,
   And after a supper of cakes and cream
   We come to the Night-Mare-Isle with a scream,
      And hurry away from it crying.

   And next is the Island-of-Lullaby,
      And every one there rejoices.
   The winds are only a perfumed sigh,
   And the birds that sing in the treetops try
      To imitate Mothers’ voices.

   A little beyond is the Isle-of-Dreams;
      Oh, that is the place to be straying.
   Everything there is just as it seems;
   Dolls are real and sunshine gleams,
      And no one calls us from playing.

   And then we come to the drollest isle,
      And the funniest sounds come pouring
   Down from its borderlands once in a while,
   And we lean o’er our barge and listen and smile;
      For that is the Isle-of-Snoring.

   And the very last isle in the River of Sleep
      Is the sunshiny Isle-of-Waking.
   We see it first with our eyes a-peep,
   And we give a yawn—then away we leap,
      The barge of Slumber forsaking.



THE THINGS THAT COUNT


   NOW, dear, it isn’t the bold things,
   Great deeds of valour and might,
   That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day.
   But it is the doing of old things,
   Small acts that are just and right;
   And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say;
   In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when
   you want to play—
   Dear, those are the things that count.

   And, dear, it isn’t the new ways
   Where the wonder-seekers crowd
   That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own.
   But it is keeping to true ways,
   Though the music is not so loud,
   And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along alone;
   In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song
   a groan—
   Dear, these are the things that count.

   My dear, it isn’t the loud part
   Of creeds that are pleasing to God,
   Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout
   or song.
   But it is the beautiful proud part
   Of walking with feet faith-shod;
   And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go
   wrong;
   In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when
   the way seems long—
   Dear, these are the things that count.



LIMITLESS


   WHEN the motive is right and the will is strong
      There are no limits to human power;
      For that great Force back of us moves along
   And takes us with it, in trial’s hour.

   And whatever the height you yearn to climb,
      Though it never was trod by the foot of man,
      And no matter how steep—I say you _can_,
   If you will be patient—and use your time.



WHAT THEY SAW


   _Sad man_, _Sad man_, _tell me_, _pray_,
   _What did you see to-day_?

   I saw the unloved and unhappy old, waiting for slow delinquent death
   to come;
   Pale little children toiling for the rich, in rooms where sunlight is
   ashamed to go;
   The awful almshouse, where the living dead rot slowly in their hideous
   open graves.
   And there were shameful things.
   Soldiers and forts, and industries of death, and devil-ships, and
   loud-winged devil-birds,
   All bent on slaughter and destruction.  These and yet more shameful
   things mine eyes beheld:
   Old men upon lascivious conquest bent, and young men living with no
   thought of God,
   And half-clothed women puffing at a weed, aping the vices of the
   underworld,
   Engrossed in shallow pleasures and intent on being barren wives.
   These things I saw.
   (How God must loathe His earth!)

   _Glad man_, _Glad man_, _tell me_, _pray_.
   _What did you see to-day_?

   I saw an agèd couple, in whose eyes
      Shone that deep light of mingled love and faith,
   Which makes the earth one room of paradise,
      And leaves no sting in death.

   I saw vast regiments of children pour,
   Rank after rank, out of the schoolroom door
   By Progress mobilised.  They seemed to say:
   ‘Let ignorance make way.
   We are the heralds of a better day.’

   I saw the college and the church that stood
   For all things sane and good.
   I saw God’s helpers in the shop and slum
   Blazing a path for health and hope to come,
   And True Religion, from the grave of creeds,
   Springing to meet man’s needs.

   I saw great Science reverently stand
   And listen for a sound from Border-land,
      No longer arrogant with unbelief—
      Holding itself aloof—
   But drawing near, and searching high and low
      For that complete and all-convincing proof
      Which shall permit its voice to comfort grief,
   Saying, ‘We know.’

   I saw fair women in their radiance rise
      And trample old traditions in the dust.
   Looking in their clear eyes,
   I seemed to hear these words as from the skies:
      ‘He who would father our sweet children must
      Be worthy of the trust.’

   Against the rosy dawn, I saw unfurled
      The banner of the race we usher in,
   The supermen and women of the world,
      Who make no code of sex to cover sin;
   Before they till the soil of parenthood,
   They look to it that seed and soil are good.

   And I saw, too, that old, old sight, and best—
   Pure mothers, with dear babies at the breast.
   These things I saw.
   (How God must love His earth!)



THE CONVENTION


   FROM the Queen Bee mother, the mother Beast, and the mother Fowl in
   the fen,
   A call went up to the human world, to Woman, the mother of men.
   The call said, ‘Come: for we, the dumb, are given speech for a day,
   And the things we have thought for a thousand years we are going at
   last to say.’

   Much they marvelled, these women of earth, at the strange and curious
   call,
   And some of them laughed, and some of them sneered, but they answered
   it one and all,
   For they wanted to hear what never before was heard since the world
   began—
   The spoken word of Beast and Bird, and the message it held for Man.

   ‘A plea for shelter,’ the woman said, ‘or food in the wintry weathers,
   Or a foolish request that we be dressed without their furs or
   feathers.
   We will do what we can for the poor dumb things, but they must be
   sensible.’  Then
   The meeting was called and a she-bear stood and voiced the thought of
   the fen.

   ‘Now this is the message we give to you’ (it was thus the she-bear
   spake):
   ‘You the creatures of homes and shrines, and we of the wold and brake,
   We have no churches, we have no schools, and our minds you question
   and doubt,
   But we follow the laws which some Great Cause, alike for us all, laid
   out.

   ‘We eat and we drink to live; we shun the things that poison and kill,
   And we settle the problems of sex and birth by the law of the female
   will,
   _For never was one of us known by a male_, _or made to mother its
   kind_,
   _Unless there went from our minds consent_ (_or from what we call the
   mind_).

   ‘But you, the highest of all she-things, you gorge yourselves at your
   feasts,
   And you smoke and drink in a way we think would lower the standard of
   beasts;
   For a ring, a roof and a rag, you are bought by your males, to have
   and to hold,
   And you mate and you breed without nature’s need, while your hearts
   and your bodies are cold.

   ‘All unwanted your offspring come, or you slay them before they are
   born;
   And now the wild she-things of the earth have spoken and told their
   scorn.
   We have no mind and we have no souls, maybe as you think—And still,
   Never one of us ate or drank the things that poison and kill,
   _And never was one of us known by a male except by our wish and
   will_.’



PROTEST


   TO sit in silence when we should protest
   Makes cowards out of men.  The human race
   Has climbed on protest.  Had no voice been raised
   Against injustice, ignorance and lust
   The Inquisition yet would serve the law
   And guillotines decide our least disputes.
   The few who dare must speak and speak again
   To right the wrongs of many.  Speech, thank God,
   No vested power in this great day and land
   Can gag or throttle; Press and voice may cry
   Loud disapproval of existing ills,
   May criticise oppression and condemn
   The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
   That let the children and child-bearers toil
   To purchase ease for idle millionaires.
   Therefore do I protest against the boast
   Of independence in this mighty land.
   Call no chain strong which holds one rusted link,
   Call no land free that holds one fettered slave.
   Until the manacled, slim wrists of babes
   Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee;
   Until the Mother bears no burden save
   The precious one beneath her heart; until
   God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed
   And given back to labour, let no man
   Call this the Land of Freedom.



A BACHELOR TO A MARRIED FLIRT


   ALL that a man can say of woman’s charms,
      Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told
   To you a thousand times.  Your perfect arms
      (A replica from that lost Melos mould),
   The fair firm crescents of your bosom (shown
   With full intent to make their splendours known),

   Your eyes (that mask with innocence their smile),
      The (artful) artlessness of all your ways,
   Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its guile—
      All these have had my fond and frequent praise.
   And something more than praise to you I gave—
   Something which made you know me as your slave.

   Yet slaves, at times, grow mutinous and rebel.
      Here in this morning hour, from you apart,
   The mood is on me to be frank and tell
      The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart.
   These thoughts are bitter—thorny plants, that grew
   Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.

   Those flowery praises led you to suppose
      You were my benefactor.  Well, in truth,
   When lovely woman on dull man bestows
      Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth,
   He is her debtor.  I am yours: and yet
   _You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt_.

   I owe you for keen moments when you stirred
      My senses with your beauty, when your eyes
   (Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word
      Your curled lips uttered.  You are worldly wise,
   And while you like to set men’s hearts on flame,
   You take no risks in that old passion-game.

   The carnal, common self of dual me
      Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.
   (An egotist, man always thinks to be
      The victor, if his patience but endures,
   And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire,
   Until the silly woman’s heart takes fire.)

   But now it is the Higher Self who speaks—
      The Me of me—the inner Man—the real—
   Whoever dreams his dream and ever seeks
      To bring to earth his beautiful ideal.
   That lifelong dream with all its promised joy
   Your soft bedevilments have helped destroy.

   Woman, how can I hope for happy life
      In days to come at my own nuptial hearth,
   When you who bear the honoured name of wife
      So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth?
   Descending from your pedestal, alas!
   You shake the pedestals of all your class.

   A vain, flirtatious wife is like a thief
      Who breaks into the temple of men’s souls,
   And steals the golden vessels of belief,
      The swinging censers, and the incense bowls.
   All women seem less loyal and less true,
   Less worthy of men’s faith since I met you.



THE SUPERWOMAN


   WHAT will the superwoman be, of whom we sing—
      She who is coming over the dim border
      Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder
   Is tidied up by Time?  What will she bring
      To make life better on tempestuous earth?
      How will her worth
   Be greater than her forbears?  What new power
   Within her being will burst into flower?

   She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
      Of adolescence which departs with youth—
      But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
   Of its eternal message and the source
   Of all its potent force.
      Her outer being by the inner thought
      Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.

   She will bring virtue; but it will not be
   The pale, white blossom of cold chastity
      Which hides a barren heart.  She will be human—
      Not saint or angel, but the superwoman—
   Mother and mate and friend of superman.

   She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
      Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,
      Drawn from the Cosmic Mind—
   Wisdom to act, strength to attain,
   And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.

   She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
      And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
      Not at the call of sense or for man’s pleasure
   Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
      To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
      Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.

   To motherhood she will bring common sense—
      That most uncommon virtue.  She will give
   Love that is more than she-wolf violence
      (Which slaughters others that its own may live).

   Love that will help each little tendril mind
      To grow and climb;
      Love that will know the lordliest use of Time
   In training human egos to be kind.

   She will be formed to guide, but not to lead—
      Leaders are ever lonely—and her sphere
   Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
      Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
   Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,
   And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or ‘Wait.’

   And best of all, she will bring holy faith
   To penetrate the shadowy world of death,
      And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,
      That leads straight up to God.



CERTITUDE


   THERE was a time when I was confident
   That God’s stupendous mystery of birth
   Was mine to know.  The wonder of it lent
   New ecstasy and glory to the earth.
   I heard no voice that uttered it aloud,
   Nor was it written for me on a scroll;
   Yet, if alone or in the common crowd,
   I felt myself a consecrated soul.
   My child leaped in its dark and silent room
   And cried, ‘I am,’ though all unheard by men.
   So leaps my spirit in the body’s gloom
   And cries, ‘I live!  I shall be born again.’
   Elate with certitude towards death I go,
   Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!



COMPASSION


   HE was a failure, and one day he died.
      Across the border of the mapless land
   He found himself among a sad-eyed band
   Of disappointed souls; they, too, had tried
   And missed their purpose.  With one voice they cried
      Unto the shining Angel in command:
      ‘Oh, lead us not before our Lord to stand,
   For we are failures, failures!  Let us hide.’

   Yet on the Angel fared, until they stood
      Before the Master.  (Even His holy place
   The hideous noises of the earth assailed.)
   Christ reached His arms out to the trembling brood,
      With God’s vast sorrow in His listening face.
   Come unto Me,’ He said; ‘I, too, have failed.’



LOVE


   DREAMING of love, the ardent mind of youth
      Conceives it one with passion’s brief delights,
   With keen desire and rapture.  But, in truth,
      These are but milestones to sublime heights
   After the highways, swept by strong emotions,
      Where wild winds blow and blazing sun rays beat,
   After the billows of tempestuous oceans,
      Fair mountain summits wait the lover’s feet.

   The path is narrow, but the view is wide,
      And beauteous the outlook towards the west
   Happy are they who walk there side by side,
      Leaving below the valleys of unrest,
   And on the radiant altitudes above
   Know the serene intensity of love.



THREE SOULS


   THREE Souls there were that reached the Heavenly Gate,
   And gained permission of the Guard to wait.
   Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin,
   They did not ask or hope to enter in.
   ‘We loved one woman (thus their story ran);
   We lost her, for she chose another man.
   So great our love, it brought us to this door;
   We only ask to see her face once more.
   Then will we go to realms where we belong,
   And pay our penalty for doing wrong.’

   ‘And wert thou friends on earth?’  (The Guard spake thus.)
   ‘Nay, we were foes; but Death made friends of us.
   The dominating thought within each Soul
   Brought us together, comrades, to this goal,
   To see her face, and in its radiance bask
   For one great moment—that is all we ask.
   And, having seen her, we must journey back
   The path we came—a hard and dangerous track.’
   ‘Wait, then,’ the Angel said, ‘beside me here,
   But do not strive within God’s Gate to peer
   Nor converse hold with Spirits clothed in light
   Who pass this way; thou hast not earned the right.’

   They waited year on year.  Then, like a flame,
   News of the woman’s death from earth-land came.
   The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes
   Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise.
   The well-beloved face in vain they sought,
   Until one day the Guardian Angel brought
   A message to them.  ‘She has gone,’ he said,
   ‘Down to the lower regions of the dead;
   Her chosen mate went first; so great her love
   She has resigned the joys that wait above
   To dwell with him, until perchance some day,
   Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.’

   Silent, the lovers turned.  The pitying Guard
   Said: ‘Stay (the while his hand the door unbarred),
   There waits for thee no darker grief or woe;
   Enter the Gates, and all God’s glories know.
   But to be ready for so great a bliss,
   Pause for a moment and take heed of this:
   The dearest treasure by each mortal lost
   Lies yonder, when the Threshold has been crossed,
   And thou shalt find within that Sacred Place
   The shining wonder of her worshipped face.
   All that is past is but a troubled dream;
   Go forward now and claim the Fact Supreme.’

   Then clothed like Angels, fitting their estate,
   Three Souls went singing, singing through God’s Gate.



WHEN LOVE IS LOST


   WHEN love is lost, the day sets towards the night,
   Albeit the morning sun may still be bright,
   And not one cloud-ship sails across the sky.
   Yet from the places where it used to lie
   Gone is the lustrous glory of the light.

   No splendour rests in any mountain height,
   No scene spreads fair and beauteous to the sight;
   All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye
      When love is lost.

   Love lends to life its grandeur and its might;
   Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight;
   Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by,
   And grief’s one happy thought is that we die.
   Ah, what can recompense us for its flight
      When love is lost?



OCCUPATION


   THERE must in heaven be many industries
   And occupations, varied, infinite;
   Or heaven could not be heaven.
   What gracious tasks
   The Mighty Maker of the universe
   Can offer souls that have prepared on earth
   By holding lovely thoughts and fair desires!

   Art thou a poet to whom words come not?
   A dumb composer of unuttered sounds,
   Ignored by fame and to the world unknown?
   Thine may be, then, the mission to create
   Immortal lyrics and immortal strains,
   For stars to chant together as they swing
   About the holy centre where God dwells.

   Hast thou the artist instinct with no skill
   To give it form or colour?  Unto thee
   It may be given to paint upon the skies
   Astounding dawns and sunsets, framed by seas
   And mountains; or to fashion and adorn
   New faces for sweet pansies and new dyes
   To tint their velvet garments.  Oftentimes
   Methinks behind a beauteous flower I see,
   Or in the tender glory of a dawn,
   The presence of some spirit who has gone
   Into the place of mystery, whose call,
   Imperious and compelling, sounds for all
   Or soon or late.  So many have passed on—
   So many with ambitions, hopes, and aims
   Unrealised, who could not be content
   As idle angels even in paradise.
   The unknown Michelangelos who lived
   With thoughts on beauty bent while chained to toil
   That gave them only bread and burial—
   These must find waiting in the world of space
   The shining timbers of their splendid dreams,
   Ready for shaping temples, shrines, and towers,
   Where radiant hosts may congregate to raise
   Their glad hosannas to the God Supreme.
   And will there not be gardens glorious,
   And mansions all embosomed among blooms,
   Where heavenly children reach out loving arms
   To lonely women who have been denied
   On earth the longed-for boon of motherhood?

   Surely God has provided work to do
   For souls like these, and for the weary, rest.



THE VALLEY OF FEAR


   IN the journey of life, as we travel along
   To the mystical goal that is hidden from sight,
   You may stumble at times into Roadways of Wrong,
   Not seeing the sign-board that points to the right.
   Through caverns of sorrow your feet may be led,
   Where the noon of the day will like midnight appear.
   But no matter whither you wander or tread,
   Keep out of the Valley of Fear.

   The Roadways of Wrong will wind out into light
   If you sit in the silence and ask for a Guide;
   In the caverns of sorrow your soul gains its sight
   Of beautiful vistas, ascending and wide.
   In by-paths of worry and trouble and strife
   Full many a bloom grows bedewed by a tear,
   But wretched and arid and void of all life
   Is the desolate Valley of Fear.

   The Valley of Fear is a maddening maze
   Of paths that wind on without exit or end,
   From nowhere to nowhere lead all of its ways,
   And shadows with shadows in more shadows blend.
   Each guide-post is lettered, ‘This way to Despair,’
   And the River of Death in the darkness flows near,
   But there is a beautiful Roadway of Prayer
   This side of the Valley of Fear.

   This beautiful Roadway is narrow and steep,
   And it runs up the side of the Mountain of Faith.
   You may not perceive it at first if you weep,
   But it rises high over the River of Death.
   Though the Roadway is narrow and dark at the base,
   It widens ascending, and ever grows clear,
   Till it shines at the top with the Light of God’s face,
   Far, far from the Valley of Fear.

   When close to that Valley your footsteps shall fare,
   Turn, turn to the Roadway of Prayer—
   The beautiful Roadway of Prayer.



WHAT WOULD IT BE?


   NOW what were the words of Jesus,
   And what would He pause and say,
   If we were to meet in home or street,
   The Lord of the world to-day?
   Oh, I think He would pause and say:
   ‘Go on with your chosen labour;
   Speak only good of your neighbour;
   Widen your farms, and lay down your arms,
   Or dig up the soil with each sabre.’

   Now what were the answer of Jesus
   If we should ask for a creed,
   To carry us straight to the wonderful gate
   When soul from body is freed?
   Oh, I think He would give us this creed:
   ‘Praise God whatever betide you;
   Cast joy on the lives beside you;
   Better the earth, by growing in worth,
   With love as the law to guide you.’

   Now what were the answer of Jesus
   If we should ask Him to tell
   Of the last great goal of the homing soul
   Where each of us hopes to dwell?
   Oh, I think it is this He would tell:
   ‘The soul is the builder—then wake it;
   The mind is the kingdom—then take it;
   And thought upon thought let Eden be wrought,
   For heaven will be what you make it.’



AMERICA


   I AM the refuge of all the oppressed,
   I am the boast of the free,
   I am the harbour where ships may rest
   Safely ’twixt sea and sea.
   I hold up a torch to a darkened world,
   I lighten the path with its ray.
   Let my hand keep steady
   And let me be ready
   For whatever comes my way—
   Let me be ready.

   Oh, better than fortresses, better than guns,
   Better than lance or spear,
   Are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons,
   Faithful and without fear.
   But my daughters and sons must understand
   _That Attila did not die_.
   And they must be ready,
   Their hands must be steady,
   If the hosts of hell come nigh—
   They must be ready.

   If Jesus were back on the earth with men,
   He would not preach to-day
   Until He had made Him a scourge, and again
   He would drive the defilers away.
   He would throw down the tables of lust and greed
   And scatter the changers’ gold.
   He would be ready,
   His hand would be steady,
   As it was in that temple of old—
   He would be ready.

   I am the cradle of God’s new world,
   From me shall the new race rise,
   And my glorious banner must float unfurled,
   Unsullied against the skies.
   My sons and daughters must be my strength,
   With courage to do and to dare,
   With hearts that are ready,
   With hands that are steady,
   And their slogan must be, PREPARE!—
   They must be ready!

   With a prayer on the lip they must shoulder arms,
   For after all has been said,
   We must muster guns,
   If we master Huns—
   _And Attila is not dead_—
   We must be ready!



WAR MOTHERS


   _There is something in the sound of drum and fife_
   _That stirs all the savage instincts into life_.

   IN the old times of peace we went our ways,
   Through proper days
   Of little joys and tasks.  Lonely at times,
   When from the steeple sounded wedding chimes,
   Telling to all the world some maid was wife—
   But taking patiently our part in life
   As it was portioned us by Church and State,
   Believing it our fate.
      Our thoughts all chaste
   Held yet a secret wish to love and mate
      Ere youth and virtue should go quite to waste.
   But men we criticised for lack of strength,
   And kept them at arm’s length.
   Then the war came—
   The world was all aflame!
   The men we had thought dull and void of power
   Were heroes in an hour.
   He who had seemed a slave to petty greed
   Showed masterful in that great time of need.
   He who had plotted for his neighbour’s pelf,
   Now for his fellows offers up himself.
   And we were only women, forced by war
   To sacrifice the things worth living for.

   _Something within us broke_,
      _Something within us woke_,
         _The wild cave-woman spoke_.

   _When we heard the sound of drumming_,
      _As our soldiers went to camp_,
      _Heard them tramp_, _tramp_, _tramp_;
   _As we watched to see them coming_,
      _And they looked at us and smiled_
      (_Yes_, _looked back at us and smiled_),
   _As they filed along by hillock and by hollow_,
      _Then our hearts were so beguiled_
      _That_, _for many and many a day_,
      _We dreamed we heard them say_,
   ‘_Oh_, _follow_, _follow_, _follow_!’
      _And the distant_, _rolling drum_
      _Called us_ ‘_Come_, _come_, _come_!’
      _Till our virtue seemed a thing to give away_.

   War had swept ten thousand years away from earth.
      We were primal once again.
      There were males, not modern men;
   We were females meant to bring their sons to birth.
      And we could not wait for any formal rite,
      We could hear them calling to us, ‘Come to-night;
   For to-morrow, at the dawn,
   We move on!’
      And the drum
      Bellowed, ‘Come, come, come!’
   And the fife
   Whistled, ‘Life, life, life!’

   So they moved on and fought and bled and died;
   Honoured and mourned, they are the nation’s pride.
   We fought our battles, too, but with the tide
   Of our red blood, we gave the world new lives.
   Because we were not wives
   We are dishonoured.  Is it noble, then,
   To break God’s laws only by killing men
   To save one’s country from destruction?
   We took no man’s life but gave our chastity,
   And sinned the ancient sin
   To plant young trees and fill felled forests in.

   Oh, clergy of the land,
   Bible in hand,
   All reverently you stand,
      On holy thoughts intent
      While barren wives receive the sacrament!
   Had you the open visions you could see
      Phantoms of infants murdered in the womb,
      Who never knew a cradle or a tomb,
   Hovering about these wives accusingly.

   Bestow the sacrament!  Their sins are not well known—
   Ours to the four winds of the earth are blown.



A HOLIDAY


Berlin, Germany, gave the school children a half holiday to celebrate the
sinking of the _Lusitania_.

   WAR declares a holiday;
   Little children, run and play.
   Ring-a-rosy round the earth
   With the garland of your mirth.

   Shrill a song brim full of glee
   Of a great ship sunk at sea.
   Tell with pleasure and with pride
   How a hundred children died.

   Sing of orphan babes, whose cries
   Beat against unanswering skies;
   Let a mother’s mad despair
   Lend staccato to your air.

   Sing of babes who drowned alone;
   Sing of headstones, marked ‘Unknown’;
   Sing of homes made desolate
   Where the stricken mourners wait.

   Sing of battered corpses tossed
   By the heedless waves, and lost.
   Run, sweet children, sing and play;
   War declares a holiday.



THE UNDERTONE


   WHEN I was very young I used to feel the dark despairs of youth;
   Out of my little griefs I would invent great tragedies and woes;
   Not only for myself, but for all those I held most dear
   I would invent vast sorrows in my melancholy moods of thought.
   Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of rapture.
   It was like a voice from some other world calling softly to me,
   Saying things joyful.

   As I grew older, and Life offered bitter gall for me to drink,
   Forcing it through clenched teeth when I refused to take it willingly;
   When Pain prepared some special anguish for my heart to bear,
   And all the things I longed for seemed to be wholly beyond my reach—
   Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of rapture.
   It was like a Voice, a Voice from some other world calling to me,
   Bringing glad tidings.

   Now when I look about me, and see the great injustices of men,
   See Idleness and Greed waited upon by luxury and mirth,
   See prosperous Vice ride by in state, while footsore Virtue walks;
   Now when I hear the cry of need rise up from lands of shameful wealth—
   Yet down deep, deep in my heart there is an undertone of rapture.
   It is like a Voice—it is a Voice—calling to me and saying:
   ‘Love rules triumphant.’

   Now when each mile-post on the path of life seems marked by
   headstones,
   And one by one dear faces that I loved are hid away from sight;
   Now when in each familiar home I see a vacant chair,
   And in the throngs once formed of friends I meet unrecognising eyes—
   Yet down deep, deep in my heart there is an undertone of rapture.
   It is the Voice, it is the Voice for ever saying unto me:
   ‘Life is Eternal.’



GYPSYING


   GYPSYING, gypsying, through the world together,
   Never mind the way we go, never mind what port.
   Follow trails, or fashion sails, start in any weather:
   While we journey hand in hand, everything is sport.

   Gypsying, gypsying, leaving care and worry:
   Never mind the ‘if’ and ‘but’ (words for coward lips).
   Put them out with ‘fear’ and ‘doubt,’ in the pack with ‘hurry,’
   While we stroll like vagabonds forth to trails, or ships.

   Gypsying, gypsying, just where fancy calls us;
   Never mind what others say, or what others do.
   Everywhere or foul or fair, liking what befalls us:
   While you have me at your side, and while I have you.

   Gypsying, gypsying, camp by hill or hollow;
   Never mind the why of it, since it suits our mood.
   Go or stay, and pay our way, and let those who follow
   Find, upspringing from the soil, some small seed of good.

   Gypsying, gypsying, through the world we wander:
   Never mind the rushing years, that have come and gone.
   There must be for you and me, lying over Yonder,
   Other lands, where side by side we can gypsy on.



SONG OF THE ROAD


   I AM a Road; a good road, fair and smooth and broad;
      And I link with my beautiful tether
      Town and Country together,
   Like a ribbon rolled on the earth, from the reel of God.
      Oh, great the life of a Road!

   I am a Road; a long road, leading on and on;
      And I cry to the world to follow,
      Past meadow and hill and hollow,
   Through desolate night, to the open gates of dawn.
      Oh, bold the life of a Road!

   I am a Road; a kind road, shaped by strong hands.
      I make strange cities neighbours;
      The poor grow rich with my labours,
   And beauty and comfort follow me through the lands.
      Oh, glad the life of a Road!

   I am a Road; a wise road, knowing all men’s ways;
      And I know how each heart reaches
      For the things dear Nature teaches;
   And I am the path that leads into green young Mays.
      Oh, sweet the life of a Road!

   I am a Road; and I speed away from the slums,
      Away from desolate places,
      Away from unused spaces;
   Wherever I go, there order from chaos comes.
      Oh, brave the life of a Road!

   I am a Road; and I would make the whole world one.
      I would give hope to duty,
      And cover the earth with beauty.
   Do you not see, O men! how all this might be done?
      So vast the power of the Road!



THE FAITH WE NEED


   TOO tall our structures, and too swift our pace;
   Not so we mount, not so we gain the race.
   Too loud the voice of commerce in the land;
   Not so truth speaks, not so we understand.
   Too vast our conquests, and too large our gains;
   Not so comes peace, not so the soul attains.

   But the need of the world is a faith that will live anywhere;
   In the still dark depths of the woods, or out in the sun’s full glare.
   A faith that can hear God’s voice, alike in the quiet glen,
   Or in the roar of the street, and over the noises of men.

   And the need of the world is a creed that is founded on joy;
   A creed with the turrets of hope and trust, no winds can destroy;
   A creed where the soul finds rest, whatever this life bestows,
   And dwells undoubting and unafraid, because it knows, it knows.

   And the need of the world is love that burns in the heart like flame;
   A love for the Giver of Life, in sorrow or joy the same;
   A love that blazes a trail to Go through the dark and the cold,
   Or keeps the pathway that leads to Him clean, through glory and gold.

   For the faith that can only thrive or grow in the solitude,
   And droops and dies in the marts of men, where sights and sounds are
   rude;
   That is not a faith at all, but a dream of a mystic’s heart;
   Our faith should point as the compass points, whatever be the chart.

   Our faith must find its centre of peace in a babel of noise;
   In the changing ways of the world of men it must keep its poise;
   And over the sorrowing sounds of earth it must hear God’s call;
   And the faith that cannot do all this, that is not faith at all.



THE PRICE HE PAID


   I SAID I would have my fling,
      And do what a young man may;
   And I didn’t believe a thing
      That the parsons have to say.
   I didn’t believe in a God
      That gives us blood like fire,
   Then flings us into hell because
      We answer the call of desire.

   And I said: ‘Religion is rot,
      And the laws of the world are nil;
   For the bad man is he who is caught
      And cannot foot his bill.
   And there is no place called hell;
      And heaven is only a truth
   When a man has his way with a maid,
      In the fresh keen hour of youth.

   ‘And money can buy us grace,
      If it rings on the plate of the church:
   And money can neatly erase
      Each sign of a sinful smirch.’
   For I saw men everywhere,
      Hotfooting the road of vice;
   And women and preachers smiled on them
      As long as they paid the price.

   So I had my joy of life:
      I went the pace of the town;
   And then I took me a wife,
      And started to settle down.
   I had gold enough and to spare
      For all of the simple joys
   That belong with a house and a home
      And a brood of girls and boys.

   I married a girl with health
      And virtue and spotless fame.
   I gave in exchange my wealth
      And a proud old family name.
   And I gave her the love of a heart
      Grown sated and sick of sin!
   My deal with the devil was all cleaned up,
      And the last bill handed in.

   She was going to bring me a child,
      And when in labour she cried
   With love and fear I was wild—
      But now I wish she had died.
   For the son she bore me was blind
      And crippled and weak and sore!
   And his mother was left a wreck.
      It was so she settled my score.

   I said I must have my fling,
      And they knew the path I would go;
   Yet no one told me a thing
      Of what I needed to know.
   Folks talk too much of a soul
      From heavenly joys debarred—
   And not enough of the babes unborn,
      By the sins of their fathers scarred.



DIVORCED


   THINKING of one thing all day long, at night
   I fall asleep, brain weary and heart sore;
   But only for a little while.  At three,
   Sometimes at two o’clock, I wake and lie,
   Staring out into darkness; while my thoughts
   Begin the weary treadmill-toil again,
   From that white marriage morning of our youth
   Down to this dreadful hour.

         I see your face
   Lit with the lovelight of the honeymoon;
   I hear your voice, that lingered on my name
   As if it loved each letter; and I feel
   The clinging of your arms about my form,
   Your kisses on my cheek—and long to break
   The anguish of such memories with tears,
   But cannot weep; the fountain has run dry.

   We were so young, so happy, and so full
   Of keen sweet joy of life.  I had no wish
   Outside your pleasure; and you loved me so
   That when I sometimes felt a woman’s need
   For more serene expression of man’s love
   (The need to rest in calm affection’s bay
   And not sail ever on the stormy main),
   Yet would I rouse myself to your desire;
   Meet ardent kiss with kisses just as warm;
   So nothing I could give should be denied.

   And then our children came.  Deep in my soul,
   From the first hour of conscious motherhood,
   I knew I should conserve myself for this
   Most holy office; knew God meant it so.
   Yet even then, I held your wishes first;
   And by my double duties lost the bloom
   And freshness of my beauty; and beheld
   A look of disapproval in your eyes.
   But with the coming of our precious child,
   The lover’s smile, tinged with the father’s pride,
   Returned again; and helped to make me strong;
   And life was very sweet for both of us.

   Another, and another birth, and twice
   The little white hearse paused beside our door
   And took away some portion of my youth
   With my sweet babies.  At the first you seemed
   To suffer with me, standing very near;
   But when I wept too long, you turned away.
   And I was hurt, not realising then
   My grief was selfish.  I could see the change
   Which motherhood and sorrow made in me;
   And when I saw the change that came to you,
   Saw how your eyes looked past me when you talked,
   And when I missed the love tone from your voice,
   I did that foolish thing weak women do,
   Complained and cried, accused you of neglect,
   And made myself obnoxious in your sight.

   And often, after you had left my side,
   Alone I stood before my mirror, mad
   With anger at my pallid cheeks, my dull
   Unlighted eyes, my shrunken mother-breasts,
   And wept, and wept, and faded more and more.
   How could I hope to win back wandering love,
   And make new flames in dying embers leap,
   By such ungracious means?

         And then She came,
   Firm-bosomed, round of cheek, with such young eyes,
   And all the ways of youth.  I who had died
   A thousand deaths, in waiting the return
   Of that old love-look to your face once more,
   Died yet again and went straight into hell
   When I beheld it come at her approach.

   My God, my God, how have I borne it all!
   Yet since she had the power to wake that look—
   The power to sweep the ashes from your heart
   Of burned-out love of me, and light new fires,
   One thing remained for me—to let you go.
   I had no wish to keep the empty frame
   From which the priceless picture had been wrenched.
   Nor do I blame you; it was not your fault:
   You gave me all that most men can give—love
   Of youth, of beauty, and of passion; and
   I gave you full return; my womanhood
   Matched well your manhood.  Yet had you grown ill,
   Or old, and unattractive from some cause
   (Less close than was my service unto you),
   I should have clung the tighter to you, dear;
   And loved you, loved you, loved you more and more.

   I grow so weary thinking of these things;
   Day in, day out; and half the awful nights.



THE REVEALING ANGELS


   SUDDENLY and without warning they came—
   The Revealing Angels came.
   Suddenly and simultaneously, through city streets,
   Through quiet lanes and country roads they walked.
   They walked crying: ‘God has sent us to find
   The vilest sinners of earth.
   We are to bring them before Him, before the Lord of Life.’

   Their voices were like bugles;
   And then all war, all strife,
   And all the noises of the world grew still;
   And no one talked;
   And no one toiled, but many strove to flee away.
   Robbers and thieves, and those sunk in drunkenness and crime,
   Men and women of evil repute,
   And mothers with fatherless children in their arms, all strove to
   hide.
   But the Revealing Angels passed them by,
   Saying: ‘Not you, not you.
   Another day, when we shall come again
   Unto the haunts of men,
   Then we will call your names;
   But God has asked us first to bring to him
   Those guilty of greater shames
   Than lust, or theft, or drunkenness, or vice—
   Yea, greater than murder done in passion,
   Or self-destruction done in dark despair.
   Now in His Holy Name we call:
   Come one and all
   Come forth; reveal your faces.’

   Then through the awful silence of the world,
   Where noise had ceased, they came—
   The sinful hosts.
   They came from lowly and from lofty places,
   Some poorly clad, but many clothed like queens;
   They came from scenes of revel and from toil;
   From haunts of sin, from palaces, from homes,
   From boudoirs, and from churches.
   They came like ghosts—
   _The vast brigades of women who had slain_
   _Their helpless_, _unborn children_.  With them trailed
   Lovers and husbands who had said, ‘Do this,’
   And those who helped for hire.
   They stood before the Angels—before the Revealing
   Angels they stood.
   And they heard the Angels say,
   And all the listening world heard the Angels say:
   ‘These are the vilest sinners of all;
   For the Lord of Life made sex that birth might come;
   Made sex and its keen compelling desire
   To fashion bodies wherein souls might go
   From lower planes to higher,
   Until the end is reached (which is Beginning).
   They have stolen the costly pleasures of the senses
   And refused to pay God’s price.
   They have come together, these men and these women,
   As male and female they have come together
   In the great creative act.
   They have invited souls, and then flung them out into space;
   They have made a jest of God’s design.
   All other sins look white beside this sinning;
   All other sins may be condoned, forgiven;
   All other sinners may be cleansed and shriven;
   Not these, not these.
   Pass on, and meet God’s eyes.’

   The vast brigade moved forward, and behind then walked the Angels,
   Walked the sorrowful Revealing Angels.



THE WELL-BORN


   SO many people—people—in the world;
   So few great souls, love ordered, well begun,
   In answer to the fertile mother need!
   So few who seem
   The image of the Maker’s mortal dream;
   So many born of mere propinquity—
   Of lustful habit, or of accident.
   Their mothers felt
   No mighty, all-compelling wish to see
   Their bosoms garden-places
   Abloom with flower faces;
   No tidal wave swept o’er them with its flood;
   No thrill of flesh or heart; no leap of blood;
   No glowing fire, flaming to white desire
   For mating and for motherhood:
   Yet they bore children.
   God! how mankind misuses Thy command,
   To populate the earth!
   How low is brought high birth!
   How low the woman; when, inert as spawn
   Left on the sands to fertilise,
   She is the means through which the race goes on!
   Not so the first intent.
   Birth, as the Supreme Mind conceived it, meant
   The clear imperious call of mate to mate
   And the clear answer.  Only thus and then
   Are fine, well-ordered, and potential lives
   Brought into being.  Not by Church or State
   Can birth be made legitimate,
   Unless
   Love in its fulness bless.
   Creation so ordains its lofty laws
   That man, while greater in all other things,
   Is lesser in the generative cause.
   The father may be merely man, the male;
   Yet more than female must the mother be.
   The woman who would fashion
   Souls, for the use of earth and angels meet,
   Must entertain a high and holy passion.
   Not rank, or wealth, or influence of kings
   Can give a soul its dower
   Of majesty and power,
   Unless the mother brings
   Great love to that great hour.



SISTERS OF MINE


   SISTERS, sisters of mine, have we done what we could
   In all the old ways, through all the new days,
   To better the race and to make life sweet and good?
   Have we played the full part that was ours in the start,
   Sisters of mine?

   Sisters, sisters of mine, as we hurry along
   To a larger world, with our banners unfurled,
   The battle-cry on lips where once was Love’s old song,
   Are we leaving behind better things than we find,
   Sisters of mine?

   Sisters, sisters of mine, through the march in the street,
   Through turmoil and din, without, and within,
   As we gain something big do we lose something sweet?
   In the growth of our might is our grace lost to sight?
   As new powers unfold do we _love_ as of old,
   Sisters of mine?



ANSWER


   O WELL have we done the old tasks! in the old, old ways of earth.
   We have kept the house in order, we have given the children birth;
   And our sons went out with their fathers, and left us alone at the
   hearth!

   We have cooked the meats for their table; we have woven their cloth at
   the loom;
   We have pulled the weeds from their gardens, and kept the flowers in
   bloom;
   And then we have sat and waited, alone in a silent room.

   We have borne all the pains of travail in giving life to the race;
   We have toiled and saved, for the masters, and helped them to power
   and place;
   And when we asked for a pittance, they gave it with grudging grace.

   On the bold, bright face of the dollar all the evils of earth are
   shown.
   We are weary of love that is barter, and of virtue that pines alone;
   We are out in the world with the masters: we are finding and claiming
   our own!



THE GRADUATES


   I SAW them beautiful, in fair array upon Commencement Day;
   Lissome and lovely, radiant and sweet
   As cultured roses, brought to their estate
   By careful training.  Finished and complete
   (As teachers calculate).

   They passed in maiden grace along the aisle,
   Leaving the chaste white sunlight of a smile
   Upon the gazing throng.
   Musing I thought upon their place as mothers of the race.

   Oh there are many actors who can play
   Greatly, great parts; but rare indeed the soul
   Who can be great when cast for some small rôle;
   Yet that is what the world most needs; big hearts
   That will shine forth and glorify poor parts
   In this strange drama, Life!  Do they,
   Who in full dress-rehearsal pass to-day
   Before admiring eyes, hold in their store
   Those fine high principles which keep old Earth
   From being only earth; and make men more
   Than just mere men?  How will they prove their worth
   Of years of study?  Will they walk abroad
   Decked with the plumage of dead bards of God,
   The glorious birds?  And shall the lamb unborn
   Be slain on altars of their vanity?
   To some frail sister who has missed the way
   Will they give Christ’s compassion, or man’s scorn;
   And will clean manhood, linked with honest love,
   The victor prove,
   When riches, gained by greed, dispute the claim?
   Will they guard well a husband’s home and name.
   Or lean down from their altitudes to hear
   The voice of flattery speak in the ear
   Those lying platitudes which men repeat
   To listening Self-Conceit?
   Musing I thought upon their place as mothers of the race,
   As beautiful they passed in maiden grace.



THE SILENT TRAGEDY


   THE deepest tragedies of life are not
   Put into books, or acted on the stage.
   Nay, they are lived in silence, by tense hearts
   In homes, among dull unperceiving kin,
   And thoughtless friends, who make a whip of words
   Wherewith to lash these hearts, and call it wit.

   There is a tragedy lived everywhere
   In Christian lands, by an increasing horde
   Of women martyrs to our social laws.
   Women whose hearts cry out for motherhood;
   Women whose bosoms ache for little heads;
   Women God meant for mothers, but whose lives
   Have been restrained, restricted, and denied
   Their natural channels, till at last they stand
   Unmated and alone, by that sad sea
   Whose slow receding tide returns no more.
   Men meet great sorrows; but no man can grasp
   The depth, and height, of such a grief as this.

   The call of Fatherhood is from man’s brain.
   Man cannot know the answer to that call
   Save as a woman tells him.  But to her
   The call of Motherhood is from the soul,
   The brain, the body.  She is like a plant
   Which buds and blossoms only to bear fruit.
   Man is the pollen, carried by the wind
   Of accident, or impulse, or desire;
   And then his rôle of fatherhood is played.
   Her threefold knowledge of maternity,
   Through three times three great months, is hers alone.

   Man as an egotist is wounded when
   He is not father.  Woman when denied
   The all-embracing rôle of motherhood
   Rebels with her whole being.  Oftentimes
   Rebellion finds its only utterance
   In shattered nerves, and lack of self-control;
   Which gives the merry world its chance to cry
   ‘Old maids are queer.’
      In far off Eastern lands

   They think of God as Mother to the race;
   Father and Mother of the Universe.
   And mayhap this is why they make their girls
   Wives prematurely, mothers over young,
   Hoping to please their Mother God this way.
   Since everywhere in Nature sex is shown
   For procreative uses, they contend
   Sterility is sinful.  (Save when one
   Chooses a life of Saintship here on earth,
   And so conserves all forces to that end.)

   Here in the West, our God is Masculine;
   And while we say He bade a Virgin bring
   His Son to birth, we think of Him as One
   Placing false values on forced continence—
   Preparing heavens for those who live that life—
   And hells for those who stray by thought or act
   From the unnatural path our laws have made.

   Mother of Christ, thou being woman, thou
   Knowing all depths within the woman heart,
   All joy, all pain, oh send the world more light.
   Enlarge our sympathies; and let our minds
   Turn from achievements of material things
   To contemplation of Eternal truths.
   Space throbs with egos, waiting for rebirth;
   And mother-hearted women fill the earth.
   Mother of Christ, show us the way to thin
   The ranks of childless women, without sin.



THE TRINITY


   MUCH may be done with the world we are in,
   Much with the race to better it;
   We can unfetter it,
   Free it from chains of the old traditions;
   Broaden its viewpoint of virtue and sin;
   Change its conditions
   Of labour and wealth;
   And open new roadways to knowledge and health.
   _Yet some things ever must stay as they are_
   _While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star_.
   A man and a woman with love between,
   Loyal and tender and true and clean,
   Nothing better has been or can be
   Than just those three.

   Woman may alter the first great plan.
   Daughters and sisters and mothers
   May stalk with their brothers
   Forth from their homes into noisy places
   Fit (and fit only) for masculine man.
   Marring their graces
   With conflict and strife
   To widen the outlook of all human life.
   _Yet some things ever must stay as they are_
   _While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star_.
   A man and a woman with love that strengthens
   And gathers new force as its earth way lengthens;
   Nothing better by God is given
   This side of heaven.

   Science may show us a wonderful vast
   Secret of life and of breeding it;
   Man by the heeding it
   Out of earth’s chaos may bring a new order.
   Off with old systems, old laws may be cast.
   What now seems the border
   Of licence in creeds,
   May then be the centre of thoughts and of deeds.
   _Yet some things ever must stay as they are_
   _While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star_.
   A man and a woman and love undefiled
   And the look of the two in the face of a child,—
   Oh, the joys of this world have their changing ways,
   But this joy stays.
   Nothing better on earth can be
   Than just those three.



THE UNWED MOTHER TO THE WIFE


   I HAD been almost happy for an hour,
   Lost to the world that knew me in the park
   Among strange faces; while my little girl
   Leaped with the squirrels, chirruped with the birds
   And with the sunlight glowed.  She was so dear,
   So beautiful, so sweet; and for the time
   The rose of love, shorn of its thorn of shame,
   Bloomed in my heart.  Then suddenly you passed.
   I sat alone upon the public bench;
   You, with your lawful husband, rode in state;
   And when your eyes fell on me and my child,
   They were not eyes, but daggers, poison tipped.

   God! how good women slaughter with a look!
   And, like cold steel, your glance cut through my heart,
   Struck every petal from the rose of love
   And left the ragged stalk alive with thorns.

   My little one came running to my side
   And called me Mother.  It was like a blow
   Between the eyes; and made me sick with pain.
   And then it seemed as if each bird and breeze
   Took up the word, and changed its syllables
   From Mother into Magdalene; and cried
   My shame to all the world.

         It was your eyes
   Which did all this.  But listen now to me
   (Not you alone, but all the barren wives
   Who, like you, flaunt their virtue in the face
   Of fallen women): I do chance to know
   The crimes you think are hidden from all men
   (Save one who took your gold and sold his skill
   And jeopardized his name for your base ends).

   I know how you have sunk your soul in sense
   Like any wanton; and refused to bear
   The harvest of your pleasure-planted seed;
   I know how you have crushed the tender bud
   Which held a soul; how you have blighted it;
   And made the holy miracle of birth
   A wicked travesty of God’s design;
   Yea, many buds, which might be blossoms now
   And beautify your selfish, arid life,
   Have been destroyed, because you chose to keep
   The aimless freedom, and the purposeless,
   Self-seeking liberty of childless wives.

   I was an untaught girl.  By nature led,
   By love and passion blinded, I became
   An unwed mother.  You, an honoured wife,
   Refuse the crown of motherhood, defy
   The laws of nature, and fling baby souls
   Back in the face of God.  And yet you dare
   Call me a sinner, and yourself a saint;
   And all the world smiles on you, and its doors
   Swing wide at your approach.
         I stand outside.

   Surely there must be higher courts than earth,
   Where you and I will some day meet and be
   Weighed by a larger justice.



FATHER AND SON


   MY grand-dame, vigorous at eighty-one,
   Delights in talking of her only son,
   My gallant father, long since dead and gone.
   ‘Ah, but he was the lad!’
   She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance.
   How well I read the meaning of that glance—
      ‘Poor son of such a dad;
      Poor weakling, dull and sad.’
   I could, but would not tell her bitter truth
   About my father’s youth.

   She says: ‘Your father laughed his way through earth:
   He laughed right in the doctor’s face at birth,
   Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.
      Ah, what a lad was he!’
   And then she sighs.  I feel her silent blame,
   Because I brought her nothing but his name.
      Because she does not see
      Her worshipped son in me.
   I could, but would not, speak in my defence,
   Anent the difference.

   She says: ‘He won all prizes in his time:
   He overworked, and died before his prime.
   At high ambition’s door I lay the crime.
      Ah, what a lad he was!’
   Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought,
   Of what avail to say, ‘His death was brought
      By broken sexual laws,
      The ancient sinful cause.’
   I could, but would not, tell the good old dame
   The story of his shame.

   I could say: ‘I am crippled, weak, and pale,
   Because my father was an unleashed male.
   Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail
      (Ah, yes, he was the lad),
   Because he drained each cup of sense-delight
   I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night.
      Because he was joy-mad,
      I must be always sad.

   Because he learned no law of self-control,
   I am a blighted soul.’
      Of what avail to speak and spoil her joy.
   Better to see her disapproving eyes,
   And silent, hear her say, between her sighs,
      ‘Ah, but he was the boy!’



HUSKS


   SHE looked at her neighbour’s house in the light of the waning day—
   A shower of rice on the steps, and the shreds of a bride’s bouquet.
   And then she drew the shade, to shut out the growing gloom,
   But she shut it into her heart instead.  (Was that a voice in the
   room?)

   ‘My neighbour is sad,’ she sighed, ‘like the mother bird who sees
   The last of her brood fly out of the nest to make its home in the
   trees’—
   And then in a passion of tears—‘But, oh, to be sad like her:
   Sad for a joy that has come and gone!’  (Did some one speak, or stir?)

   She looked at her faded hands, all burdened with costly rings;
   She looked on her widowed home, all burdened with priceless things.
   She thought of the dead years gone, of the empty years ahead—
   (Yes, something stirred and something spake, and this was what it
   said:)

   ‘_The voice of the Might Have Been speaks here through the lonely
   dusk_;
   _Life offered the fruits of love_; _you gathered only the husk_.
   _There are jewels ablaze on your breast where never a child has
   slept_.’
   She covered her face with her ringed old hands, and wept and wept and
   wept.



MEDITATIONS


HIS


   I WAS so proud of you last night, dear girl,
   While man with man was striving for your smile.
   You never lost your head, nor once dropped down
   From your high place
   As queen in that gay whirl.

   (It takes more poise to wear a little crown
   With modesty and grace
   Than to adorn the lordlier thrones of earth.)

   You seem so free from artifice and wile:
   And in your eyes I read
   Encouragement to my unspoken thought.
   My heart is eloquent with words to plead
   Its cause of passion; but my questioning mind,
   Knowing how love is blind,
   Dwells on the pros and cons, and God knows what.

   My heart cries with each beat,
   ‘She is so beautiful, so pure, so sweet,
   So more than dear.’
   And then I hear
   The voice of Reason, asking: ‘Would she meet
   Life’s common duties with good common sense?
   Could she bear quiet evenings at your hearth,
   And not be sighing for gay scenes of mirth?
   If, some great day, love’s mighty recompense
   For chastity surrendered came to her,
   If she felt stir
   Beneath her heart a little pulse of life,
   Would she rejoice with holy pride and wonder,
   And find new glory in the name of wife?
   Or would she plot with sin, and seek to plunder
   Love’s sanctuary, and cast away its treasure,
   That she might keep her freedom and her pleasure?
   Could she be loyal mate and mother dutiful?
   Or is she only some bright hothouse bloom,
   Seedless and beautiful,
   Meant just for decoration, and for show?’
   Alone here in my room,
   I hear this voice of Reason.  My poor heart
   Has ever but one answer to impart,
   ‘I love her so.’



HERS


   After the ball last night, when I came home
   I stood before my mirror, and took note
   Of all that men call beautiful.  Delight,
   Keen sweet delight, possessed me, when I saw
   My own reflection smiling on me there,
   Because your eyes, through all the swirling hours,
   And in your slow good-night, had made a fact
   Of what before I fancied might be so;
   Yet knowing how men lie, by look and act,
   I still had doubted.  But I doubt no more,
   I know you love me, love me.  And I feel
   Your satisfaction in my comeliness.

   Beauty and youth, good health and willing mind,
   A spotless reputation, and a heart
   Longing for mating and for motherhood,
   And lips unsullied by another’s kiss—
   These are the riches I can bring to you.

   But as I sit here, thinking of it all
   In the clear light of morning, sudden fear
   Has seized upon me.  What has been your past?
   From out the jungle of old reckless years,
   May serpents crawl across our path some day
   And pierce us with their fangs?  Oh, I am not
   A prude or bigot; and I have not lived
   A score and three full years in ignorance
   Of human nature.  Much I can condone;
   For well I know our kinship to the earth
   And all created things.  Why, even I
   Have felt the burden of virginity,
   When flowers and birds and golden butterflies
   In early spring were mating; and I know
   How loud that call of sex must sound to man
   Above the feeble protest of the world.
   But I can hear from depths within my soul
   The voices of my unborn children cry
   For rightful heritage.  (May God attune
   The souls of men, that they may hear and heed
   That plaintive voice above the call of sex;
   And may the world’s weak protest swell into
   A thunderous diapason—a demand
   For cleaner fatherhood.)
         Oh, love, come near;
   Look in my eyes, and say I need not fear.



THE TRAVELLER


   BRISTLING with steeples, high against the hill,
   Like some great thistle in the rosy dawn
   It stood; the Town-of-Christian-Churches, stood.
   The Traveller surveyed it with a smile.
   ‘Surely,’ He said, ‘here is the home of peace;
   Here neighbour lives with neighbour in accord;
   God in the heart of all.  Else why these spires?’
   (Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)

   The sudden shriek of whistles changed the sound
   From mellow music into jarring noise.
   Then down the street pale hurrying children came,
   And vanished in the yawning Factory door.
   He called to them: ‘Come back, come unto Me.’
   The Foreman cursed, and caned Him from the place.
   (Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)

   Forth from two churches came two men, and met,
   Disputing loudly over boundary lines,
   Hate in their eyes, and murder in their hearts.
   A haughty woman drew her skirts aside
   Because her fallen sister passed that way.
   The Traveller rebuked them all.  Amazed,
   They asked in indignation, ‘Who are you,
   Daring to interfere in private lives?’
   The Traveller replied, ‘My name is CHRIST.’
   (Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)



WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?


I


   WHAT have you done, and what are you doing with life, O Man!
   O Average Man of the world—
   Average Man of the Christian world we call civilised?
   What have you done to pay for the labour pains of the mother who bore
   you?
   On earth you occupy space; you consume oxygen from the air:
   And what do you give in return for these things?
   Who is better that you live, and strive, and toil?
   Or that you live through the toiling and striving of others?
   As you pass down the street does any one look on you and say,
   ‘There goes a good son, a true husband, a wise father, a fine citizen?
   A man whose strong hand is ready to help a neighbour,
   A man to trust’?  And what do women say of you?
   Unto their own souls what do women say?
   Do they say: ‘He helped to make the road easier for tired feet?
   To broaden the narrow horizon for aching eyes?
   He helped us to higher ideals of womanhood’?
   Look into your own heart and answer, O Average Man of the world,
   Of the Christian world we call civilised.



II


   What do men think of you, what do they think and say of you,
   O Average Woman of the world?
   Do they say: ‘There is a woman with a great heart,
   Loyal to her sex, and above envy and evil speaking?
   There is a daughter, wife, mother, with a purpose in life:
   She can be trusted to mould the minds of little children.
   She knows how to be good without being dull;
   How to be glad and to make others glad without descending to folly;
   She is one who illuminates the path wherein she walks;
   One who awakens the best in every human being she meets’?
   Look into your heart, O Woman! and answer this:
   What are you doing with the beautiful years?
   Is your to-day a better thing than was your yesterday?
   Have you grown in knowledge, grace, and usefulness?
   Or are you ravelling out the wonderful fabric knit by Time,
   And throwing away the threads?
   Make answer, O Woman!  Average Woman of the Christian world.

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

         Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
                    at the Edinburgh University Press





*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Poems of Purpose" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.



Home