Ella Wheeler Wilcox

“ So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail—
A tender blossom on my breast, and say,
“Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend!
’Tis I am loved, not you”? Yet that were truth,
And she must know it later.
Should I speak,
And spread a ghastly pallor o’er the cheek
Flushed now with joy? And while I, doubting pondered,
She spoke again. “Maurine! I oft have wondered
Why you and Vivian were not lovers. He
Is all a heart could ask its king to be;
And you have beauty, intellect and youth. ”

“ Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine's beaux,
Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes,
Or sport a hat that has a longer feather—
And lo! the strain has broken 'friendship's tether.'
Maurine's sweet smile becomes a frown or pout;
'She's just begun to find that Helen out'
The breach grows wider—anger fills each heart;
They drift asunder, whom 'but death could part.'
You shake your head? Oh, well, we'll never know!
It is not likely Fate will test you so.
You'll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year,
While life shall last, you'll hold each other dear. ”

“ I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,
And viewed her as I ne’er had done before.
I gazed upon her features o’er and o’er;
Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form,
Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;
Saw she was fairer in her new-found joy
Than e’er before; and thought, “Can I destroy
God’s handiwork, or leave it at the best
A broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?”
I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,
And sought my room, and found there such relief
As sad hearts feel when first alone with grief. ”

“ I grow weak
With every hour that passes. I must speak
And make my dying wishes known to-night.
Go now.” And in the halo of her smile,
Which seemed to fill the room with golden light,
I turned and left her.
Later, in the gloom
Of coming night, I entered that dim room,
And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand:
And on the pillow at her side there smiled
The beauteous count’nance of a sleeping child.
“Maurine,” spoke Helen, “for three blissful years,
My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land;
And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy,
Without one drop of anguish or alloy. ”

“ Helen sighed.
“How long the hours!” my tortured heart replied.
Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide
By Father Time, and, looking in his face,
Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside,
“I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace.”
The while her elder brother Pain, man grown,
Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone,
Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm,
Where he shall find not only rest, but balm
For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe,
“Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?” ”

“ If but his name was uttered. You were kind,
My own Maurine! as you alone could be,
So long the sharer of my heart and mind,
While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.
In all the years we have been friends, my own,
And loved as women very rarely do,
My heart no sorrow and no joy has known
It has not shared at once, in full, with you.
And I so longed to speak to you of this,
When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss;
Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say,
In pity for my folly—‘Lack-a-day! ”

“ The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught
My hand to grow more skilful in its art,
Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought
Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.
Brief letters came from Helen, now and then:
She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed!
But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by,
When baby, being older, should not need
Such constant care, she would grow strong again.
She was as happy as a soul could be;
No least cloud hovered in her azure sky;
She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. ”

“ That comes to warm you with its ray,
But while you smile has flown away—
A woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart,
But gave her skill, and tact, and art,
And so she lives, and plays her part.
We must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man—but just to hear
The praise he whispers in her ear,
Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—
Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs
The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,
Then throws them lightly by and laughs,
Too weak to understand their pain. ”

“ Bowing before some new and mighty power.
"Maurine, Maurine!" she murmured, and again,
"Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!"
And then,
Laying her love light hands upon my head,
She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said
With voice that bore her joy in ev'ry tone,
As winds that blow across a garden bed
Are weighed with fragrance, "He is mine alone,
And I am his—all his—his very own.
So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie
Save one beneath God's over‐arching sky.
I could not wait to tell you of my bliss:
I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss." ”

“ To Aunt Ruth’s queries, “What the truant wrote?”
By saying he was still upon the wing,
And merely dropped a line, while journeying,
To say he lived: and she was satisfied.
Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange,
A human heart will pass through mortal strife,
And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life,
So full of hope and beauty, bloom and grace,
Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:
And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place—
A ghastly, pallid spectre of the slain.
Yet those in daily converse see no change
Nor dream the heart has suffered. ”

“ That Vivian’s heart was full of jealous pain,
Suspecting—nay, believing—Roy Montaine
To be my lover. First my altered mien—
And next the letter—then the doorway scene—
My flushed face gazing in the one above
That bent so near me, and my strange confusion
When Vivian came all led to one conclusion:
That I had but been playing with his love,
As women sometimes cruelly do play
With hearts when their true lovers are away.
There could be nothing easier than just
To let him linger on in this belief
Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust
Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief. ”

“ Glad letters came from Helen; happy things,
Like little birds that followed on swift wings,
Bringing their tender messages from home.
Her days were poems, beautiful, complete.
The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet.
She was so happy—happy, and so blest.
My heart had found contentment in that year.
With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer
The heart of youth turns ever to the light;
Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night,
But, in its very anguish and unrest,
It beats and tears the pall‐like folds away,
And finds again the sunlight of the day. ”

“ The constant stars say never a word,
But only smile with their eyes—
Smile on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
On the wingèd wind speech flies.
But I read the truth of your noble heart
In your soulful, speaking eyes—
In your deep and beautiful eyes.
The twilight darkened, round us, in the room,
While Helen sang; and, in the gathering gloom,
Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his,
And held it so; while Helen made the air
Languid with music. Then a step drew near,
And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell:
“Dear! dear! ”

“ A light wind, from the open casement, fanned
My brow and Helen's, as we, hand in hand,
Sat looking out upon the twilight scene,
In dreamy silence. Helen's dark blue eyes,
Like two lost stars that wandered from the skies
Some night adown the meteor's shining track,
And always had been grieving to go back,
Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven's dome,
And seemed to recognize and long for home.
Her sweet voice broke the silence: "Wish, Maurine,
Before you speak! you know the moon is new,
And anything you wish for will come true
Before it wanes. I do believe the sign! ”

“ Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled
Its precious contents. Even to the lees
Were offered to me, saying, “Drink of these!”
And, when I saw it empty, Love was killed.
No word was left unsaid, no act undone,
To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.
Ah! Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save
One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—
I still had loved thee, longing for it then.
But even the cup is mine. I look within,
And find it holds not one last drop to win,
And cast it down.—Thou art as other men. ”

“ As widely different from the heart’s domain
As north from south—the impulse felt before,
And put away; but now it rose once more,
In greater strength, and said, “Heart, wouldst thou prove
What lips have uttered? Then go, lay thy love
On Friendship’s altar, as thy offering.”
“Nay!” cried my heart, “ask any other thing—
Ask life itself—’twere easier sacrifice.
But ask not love, for that I cannot give.”
“But,” spoke the voice, “the meanest insect dies,
And is no hero! heroes dare to live
When all that makes life sweet is snatched away.” ”

“ Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul;
Better to go on, loveless, to the end,
Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.
Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart.
With will most resolute I set my aim
To enter on the weary race for Fame,
And if I failed to climb the dizzy height,
To reach some point of excellence in art.
E’en as the Maker held earth incomplete,
Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod,
The perfect, living image of his God,
All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight,
Wherein the human figure had no part. ”

“ And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;
If from the fashions of the world set free,
And hid away from all its jealous strife,
I lived alone for you, and you for me—
Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.
But since we dwell here in the crowded way,
Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold,
And all is commonplace and workaday,
As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows old;
Since fashion rules and nature yields to art,
And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,
’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart
And go our ways alone, love, and forget. ”

“ I pass to th' Immortal arms above,
Before I even brush the skirts of Woe.
"I leave my aged parents here below,
With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend!
Be kind to them, and love them to the end,
Which may not be far distant.
And I leave
A soul immortal in your charge, Maurine.
[Pg 114] From this most holy, sad and sacred eve,
Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep,
To love and shelter, to protect and guide."
She touched the slumb'ring cherub at her side,
And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep,
And laid the precious burden on my breast. ”

“ Devoid of heart, she cannot know
The suffering of a human heart.
I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s eyes
Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise;
But lightly answered, toying with my fan,
“That sentiment is very like a man!
Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong;
We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong;
And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing
And make a shroud out of their suffering,
And drag the corpse about with them for years.
But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears! ”

“ Teach her to love her father's name, Maurine,
Where'er he wanders. Keep my memory green
In her young heart, and lead her in her youth,
To drink from th' eternal fount of Truth;
Vex her not with sectarian discourse,
Nor strive to teach her piety by force;
Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds,
Nor frighten her with an avenging God,
Who rules his subjects with a burning rod;
But teach her that each mortal simply needs
To grow in hate of hate and love of love,
To gain a kingdom in the courts above. ”

“ When suddenly the truth did o’er me break,
Like some great wave upon a helpless child.
The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife—
The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,
And God gave back the burden of the life
He kept what time I slumbered.
“You are ill,”
Cried Helen, “with that blinding headache still!
You look so pale and weary. Now let me
Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day!
And first I’ll suit some dainty to your taste,
And bring it to you, with a cup of tea.” ”

“ A man’s great riches, causing him to live
In some low cot, all unpretending, still
As much his home—as much his loved retreat,
As was the princely palace on the hill,
E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet!
Of my heart-fortune.’
‘That were more to me,’
I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be
The worshipped consort of a king.’ And so
Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go
Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.
And I am sad because you go away
Before that time. I shall not feel half wed
Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay,
And be my bridesmaid. ”

“ Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot,
But those sweet early years of lost delight,
Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.
I have a theory, vague, undefined,
That each emotion of the human mind,
Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair,
Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air,
Until it takes possession of some breast;
And, when at length, grown weary of unrest,
We rise up strong and cast it from the heart,
And bid it leave us wholly, and depart,
It does not die, it cannot die ”

“ I know
How long it takes you to arrange each bow—
To twist each curl, and loop your skirts aright.
And you must prove you are au fait to-night,
And make a perfect toilet: for our caller
Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar,
And views with eyes of all.”
“Oh, oh! Maurine,”
Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear,
“You’ve frightened me so I shall not appear:
I’ll hide away, refusing to be seen
By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft
Of all my friends, my peaceful home I’ve left,
And strayed away into the dreadful wood
To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood.
No, Maurine, no! ”

“ A dread of change—the crowning moment’s curse,
Since what is perfect, change but renders worse:
A vain desire to cripple Time, who goes
Bearing our joys away, and bringing woes.
And later, doubts and jealousies awaken,
And plighted hearts are tempest-tossed and shaken.
Doubt sends a test, that goes a step too far,
A wound is made, that, healing, leaves a scar,
Or one heart, full with love’s sweet satisfaction,
Thinks truth once spoken always understood,
While one is pining for the tender action
And whispered word by which, of old, ’twas wooed. ”

“ The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned
The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned,
Till sciences or classics hold no lore
He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er,
Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared
With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared
The hospitalities of every land;
Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand;
Made man his study, and the world his college,
And gained this grand epitome of knowledge:
Each human being has a heart and soul,
And self is but an atom of the whole. ”

“ And I often borrow a vague half‐sorrow
That another morning has dawned for me.
When the royal smile of that welcome comer
Beams on the meadow and burns in the sky,
Is it my eyes, or does the Summer
Bring less of bloom than in days gone by?
The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me,
To an overflowing of happy tears,
I pass unseeing, my sad eyes being
Dimmed by the shadow of vanished years.
[Pg 188] When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary;
When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long. ”

“ Be you kind,
Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more,
Lest pleading and denying should divide
The hearts so long united. Let me find
In you my cousin and my friend of yore.
And now come home. The morning, all too soon
And unperceived, has melted into noon.
Helen will miss us, and we must return.”
He took my hand, and helped me to arise,
Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes,
Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.
“And so,” he said, “too soon and unforeseen
My friendship melted into love, Maurine. ”