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The Times

The Times

The times are not degenerate. Man’s faith
Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed
Can take from the immortal soul the need

Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith
Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth
Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

Man may not worship at the ancient shrine
Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn.
That night is past. He hails a fairer morn,

And knows himself a something all divine;
No humble worm whose heritage is sin,
But, born of God, he feels the Christ within.

Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time,
But deep his reverence for that mighty force,
That occult working of the great all Source,

Which makes the present era so sublime.
Religion now means something high and broad,
And man stood never half so near to God.
407

The Summer Girl

The Summer Girl

She's the jauntiest of creatures, she's the daintiest of misses,
With her pretty patent leathers or her alligator ties,
With her eyes inviting glances and her lips inviting kisses,
As she wanders by the ocean or strolls under country skies.


She's a captivating dresser, and her parasols are stunning,
Her fads will-take your breath away, her hats are dreams of style;
She is not so very bookish, but with repartee and punning
She can set the savants laughing and make even dudelets smile.


She has no attacks of talent, she is not a stage-struck maiden;
She is wholly free from hobbies, and she dreams of no 'career;'
She is mostly gay and happy, never sad or care-beladen,
Though she sometimes sighs a little if a gentleman is near.


She's a sturdy little walker and she braves all kinds of weather,
And when the rain or fog or mist drive rival crimps a-wreck,
Her fluffy hair goes curling like a kinked-up ostrich feather
Around her ears and forehead and the white nape of her neck.


She is like a fish in water; she can handle reins and racket;
From head to toe and finger-tips she's thoroughly alive;
When she goes promenading in a most distracting jacket,
The rustle round her feet suggests how laundresses may thrive.


She can dare the wind and sunshine in the most bravado manner,
And after hours of sailing she has merely cheeks of rose;
Old Sol himself seems smitten and at most will only tan her,
Though to everybody else he gives a danger-signal nose.


She's a trifle sentimental, and she's fond of admiration,
And she sometimes flirts a little in the season's giddy whirl;
But win her if you can, sir, she may prove your life's salvation,
For an angel masquerading oft is she, the summer girl.
364

The Swan Of Dijon

The Swan Of Dijon

I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast
Was at its loudest; when there was no sound
From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,
Or rattle of their wagons in the street.
When every engine whistle would repeat
Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,
'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring
Remnants of men back as war's offering.'


And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye
Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;
But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by
Where war was not; a little lake whereon
Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,
Majestic and imposing, yet serene.


I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight
Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white,
Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid
While silver fountains for his pleasure played.
Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part
To rest a tired heart.
395

The Stevedores

The Stevedores

We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile and strong,
We are given the hardest work of the war, and the hours are long.
We handle the heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal;
While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below like a mole.
But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not fight!
And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it right.


We are the army stevedores, and we are volunteers.
We did not wait for the draft to come, to put aside our fears;
We flung them away on the winds of fate, at the very first call of our land,
And each of us offered a willing heart and the strength of a brawny hand.
We are the army stevedores, and work as we must and may,
The cross of honour will never be ours to proudly wear away.


But the men at the Front could never be there,
And the battles could not be won,
If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine
And left their work undone.
Somebody has to do this work, be glad that it isn't you!
We are the army stevedores-give us our due!
444

The Story Of Grumble Tone

The Story Of Grumble Tone

There was a boy named Grumble Tone, who ran away to sea.
'I'm sick of things on land,' he said, 'as sick as I can be,
A life upon the bounding wave is just the life for me!'
But the seething ocean billows failed to stimulate his mirth,
For he did not like the vessel or the dizzy rolling berth,
And he thought the sea was almost as unpleasant as the earth.


He wandered into foreign lands, he saw each wondrous sight,
But nothing that he heard or saw seemed just exactly right,
And so he journeyed on and on, still seeking for delight.
He talked with kings and ladies grand; he dined in courts, they say,
But always found the people dull and longed to get away
To search for that mysterious land where he should want to stay.


He wandered over all the world, his hair grew white as snow,
He reached that final bourne at last where all of us must go,
But never found the land he sought; the reason would you know?
The reason was that north or south, where'er his steps were bent,
On land or sea, in court or hall, he found but discontent,
For he took his disposition with him, everywhere he went.
470

The Spirit Of Great Joan

The Spirit Of Great Joan

Back of each soldier who fights for France,
Aye, back of each woman and man
Who toils and prays through these long tense days.
Is the spirit of Great Joan.
For the love she gave, and the life she gave,
In the eyes of God sufficed
To crown her with light, and power, and might,
That made her second to Christ.


And so in that hour at the Marne she came,
To the seeing eyes of men;
And the blind of view still felt and knew
That her spirit had come again.
And she will come in each crucial hour
And joy shall follow despair,
For Joan sees her France on its knees
And she hears the voice of its prayer.


There is no hate in the heart of France,
But a mighty moral force
That takes its stand for her worshipped land,
And cannot be swerved from its course.
For this is the way with France to-day,
Her courage comes from faith,
And she bends her knee ere she straightens her arm;
In her forward rush toward death.


A jungle of beasts in the heart of the Hun-
War to the world laid bare.
And war has revealed, that France concealed,
Only the lion's lair.
A lioness fighting to save her own,
She fights as a lioness can,
And strength to the end shall the Unseen send,
In the spirit of Great Joan.
371

The Song Of The Sandwich

The Song Of The Sandwich

We
met at night in the season's hight,
Mid revel and mirth and song.
I looked in your eye with a mute, mute cry,
As you elbowed your way through the throng.


Alone in that crowd of men who bowed,
And flattered, and flirted around,
Your quick thought guessed the woe in my breast,
And you sprang to my side with a bound.


In a whisper as faint as a south wind's plaint,
I murmured my need to you.
'A sandwich!' I wailed, then your strong eye quailed,
For oh! they were thin and few.


And about them hustled and pushed and tussled,
A score of desperate men.
But you drew your breath, and you hissed ''Sdeath!'
And then you turned back again.


'Ladye!' you cried with haughty pride,
While your dark eye flashed on me,
'If I risk my life in yon seething strife
What shall my guerdon be?'


'May I hope for a line that shall be all mine,
A song by the world unheard?
From rivals detested, shall the sandwich be wrested,
If thou wilt but say the word.'


'If you reach that goal, I vow by my soul,
(I spoke in a desperate tone)
And I live till that time, I will write you a rhyme,
A rhyme to be all your own.'


'Nay more, if you try, and in warfare die,
As sometimes befalls the brave,
In lines of glory I'll wreathe your story
And lay them upon your grave.'


Like a knight of old, with an air that was bold,
You turned from my side and went,
Past salad dish, past deviled fish,



Past cake and condiment.


With a step unswerving and a speed deserving
A better reward-alack!
You crossed the room 'neath the red globes' gloom,
Bent on the sandwich's track


My heart stood still in a nameless chill,
As I saw you stride away,
For fair girls' smiles, and punch bowl's wiles,
Both by your roadside lay.


With the fever fire of hunger dire,
I saw you pass them straight,
And I almost wept as your bold hand swept
To the waning sandwich plate.


Then back you came with your cheek aflame,
And the victor's glow in your eye;
Oh! it was grand to see you stand
With the sandwich held on high.


So here and now, I keep my vow;
(Tho' the sandwich is no more)
I would rise from my hearse and write that verse,
If it were not written before.


Envoi


Poet, we know that many men go,
Forth on that self-same track,
With purpose as high, to do or die,
But they bring no sandwich back.
499

The Saddest Hour

The Saddest Hour

The saddest hour of anguish and of loss
Is not that season of supreme despair
When we can find no least light anywhere
To gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross;
Not in that luxury of sorrow when
We sup on salt of tears, and drink the gall
Of memories of days beyond recall—
Of lost delights that cannot come again.
But when, with eyes that are no longer wet,
We look out on the great, wide world of men,
And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,
Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,
To find that we are learning to forget:
Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.
387

The Signboard

The Signboard

I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.

I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother’s pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses a chat awhile.

I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him –
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.

And next I will paint a drunkard –
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathesome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.

I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling’s side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin
Labelled with one word – ‘Lost’
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.

The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know
But I’ll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,


So terribly, fearfully true.
422

The River Of Sleep

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.
417

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Identification and basic context

Ella Wheeler Wilcox was an American poet and novelist, born in Wisconsin. She is best known for her popular and inspirational poetry, often characterized by its accessible language and optimistic or sentimental themes. Wilcox achieved considerable fame during her lifetime, becoming one of the most widely read and commercially successful poets of her era. Her work often explored themes of love, nature, spirituality, and the power of positive thought, resonating with a broad audience. She wrote primarily in English and was a significant voice in American popular literature during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Childhood and education

Wilcox grew up in a rural setting in Wisconsin and showed an early inclination towards writing, composing her first poem at the age of seven. Her formal education was limited; she attended the University of Wisconsin for a brief period but left to pursue her literary ambitions. Despite this, she was a voracious reader and a self-taught individual, largely shaping her own intellectual and artistic development. Her early life experiences, including financial struggles within her family, likely contributed to her later focus on themes of perseverance and positive outlook.

Literary trajectory

Wilcox's literary career began in her youth, with poems appearing in local and then national publications. Her first book of poetry, "The Beautiful and the Ugly," was published in 1877, but it was her poem "The Beautiful World" (later retitled "The World Beautiful") that brought her widespread recognition. She went on to publish numerous volumes of poetry and prose, becoming a prolific and popular writer. Her work evolved in terms of its thematic focus, often emphasizing self-help, spiritualism, and a cheerful disposition, which cemented her reputation as a poet of encouragement and optimism. She was also a regular contributor to newspapers and magazines, further expanding her reach.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Wilcox's most famous works include poetry collections like "Poems of Passion" (1883), "The Beautiful World" (1890), and "Sonnets of Sorrow and Triumph" (1907), as well as the inspirational prose work "The Art of Being Alive" (1913). Her dominant themes revolve around love, loss, nature, the spiritual realm, and the importance of a positive mental attitude. Her style is generally characterized by simplicity, directness, and a strong emotional appeal, making her poetry highly accessible to a broad readership. She often employed traditional forms like the sonnet but was also known for her lyrical and often aphoristic verse. Her poetic voice is typically warm, empathetic, and encouraging, aiming to uplift and inspire. While not known for radical formal innovations, her strength lay in her ability to articulate common sentiments and philosophical ideas in memorable and quotable ways. Her association with popular poetry and the self-help genre often meant her work was distinguished from more experimental or avant-garde literary movements of her time.

Cultural and historical context

Wilcox wrote during a period of significant social and cultural change in the United States, including the Gilded Age, the Progressive Era, and the rise of the New Thought movement, which emphasized the power of the mind to influence one's circumstances. Her optimistic and spiritual themes aligned well with the prevailing mood of self-improvement and the search for meaning that characterized this era. She was a contemporary of other popular poets and writers, and her work was widely circulated through newspapers and magazines, reflecting the growing mass media landscape. Her accessible style and reassuring messages provided a form of comfort and guidance to many readers navigating the complexities of modern life.

Personal life

Wilcox experienced personal hardships, including her father's early death and the family's subsequent financial difficulties, which likely influenced her later emphasis on resilience and financial independence. She married Robert Wilcox in 1884, and their relationship provided stability. She was known to be interested in spiritualism and New Thought philosophy, which permeated her writing and offered a framework for her optimistic outlook. Her public persona was one of warmth and approachability, and she engaged actively with her audience through her writings.

Recognition and reception

Wilcox achieved immense popularity during her lifetime, becoming one of the best-selling poets in the United States. Her work was widely published, translated, and read, earning her considerable fame and financial success. She was often referred to as "the people's poet." While she enjoyed broad popular appeal and critical acknowledgment of her ability to connect with readers, her work was sometimes viewed by literary elites as sentimental or lacking in artistic depth compared to more formally complex poets. Nevertheless, her place in popular culture and her impact on readers seeking comfort and inspiration are undeniable.

Influences and legacy

Wilcox was influenced by contemporary popular poets and by the philosophical currents of her time, such as New Thought and the broader interest in spirituality and positive thinking. Her legacy lies in her enduring popularity and her contribution to the genre of inspirational poetry. She influenced many subsequent writers in the self-help and inspirational genres, and her poems continue to be quoted and shared for their uplifting messages. While not typically considered a canonical figure in "high" literature, her work remains significant for its widespread appeal and its role in shaping popular literary tastes and providing solace to generations of readers.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Scholarly interpretation of Wilcox's work often focuses on its role within the context of popular literature, the New Thought movement, and the rise of women writers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Critics analyze her thematic focus on optimism and self-reliance, and her accessible style, as key factors in her broad appeal. Debates may arise regarding the artistic merit of her sentimentalism versus the genuine emotional resonance of her message.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Wilcox was known for her belief in reincarnation and her interest in occult and spiritualist phenomena. She was also a proponent of vegetarianism. Her prolific output and sustained popularity made her a significant literary entrepreneur of her day. Despite her sentimental image, she was also a strong advocate for women's rights and empowerment, often weaving themes of independence and self-worth into her poetry.

Death and memory

Ella Wheeler Wilcox died in New York City at the age of 69. Her death was widely noted in the press, reflecting her considerable public profile. Her memory is preserved through the continued availability of her books and her frequent inclusion in anthologies of popular American poetry. Her poems remain widely circulated online and in popular culture, continuing to offer messages of hope and encouragement to new generations of readers.