: Yesterdays by Wilcox Ella Wheeler - American poetry

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Foreword An Old Heart Warp and Woof So Long If I could only weep Why should we sigh A wakeful night If one should dive deep Two No comfort It does not matter The under-tone Worth living More fortunate He will not come Worn out Rondeau Trifles Courage The other Mad Which Love's burial Incomplete On rainy days Geraldine Only in dreams Circumstance Simple creeds The bridal eve Good night No place Found A man's reverie When my sweet lady sings Spectres Only a line Parting Estranged Before and after An empty crib The arrival Go back Why I love her Discontent A dream The night New Year Reverie The law Spirit of a Great Control Noon The search A man's good-bye At the hop Met Returned birds A crushed leaf A curious story Jenny Lind Life's key Bridge of prayer New year Deceitful calm Un Rencontre Burned out Only a glove Reminders A dirge Not anchored The new love An east wind Cheating time Only a slight flirtation What the rain saw After Our petty cares The ship and the boat Come near A suggestion A fisherman's baby Content and happiness The Cusine I wonder why A woman's hand Presentiment Two rooms Three at the opera A strain of music Smoke An autumn day Wishes The play As we look back Why Listen Together One night Lost nation The captive No song Two friends I didn't think A burial Their faces The lullaby Mirage Alone in the house An old bouquet At the bridal Best

FOREWORD

This little volume might be called 'Echoes from the land of youthful imaginings'; or 'Ghosts of old dreams.' It has been compiled at the request of Messrs. Gay and Hancock , and contains verses written in my early youth, and which never before have been placed in book form.

Given the poetical temperament, and a lonely environment, with few distractions, youthful imagination is sure to express itself in mournful wails and despairing moans. Such wails and moans will be found to excess in this little book, and will serve to show better than any amount of common-sense reasoning, how fleeting are the sorrows of youth, and how slight the foundation on which the young build towers of despair.

In the days when these verses were written, each little song represented a few dollars , and so the slightest experience of my own, or of any friend, with every passing mood, every trivial happening, was utilised by my imaginative and thrifty muse.

That the writer has always possessed robust health, and has lived to a good age, is proof positive that the verses are not all expressions of personal experiences, since no human being could have borne such continual agonies and retained life and reason.

All the verses in the book were written while I bore the name of Ella Wheeler, and are quite inconsistent with the ideas and philosophy of

AN OLD HEART

How young I am! Ah! heaven, this curse of youth Doth mock me from my mirror with great eyes, And pulsing veins repeat the unwelcome truth, That I must live, though hope within me dies.

So young, and yet I have had all of life. Why, men have lived to see a hundred years, Who have not known the rapture, joy, and strife Of my brief youth, its passion and its tears.

Oh! what are years? A ripe three score and ten Hold often less of life, in its best sense, Than just a twelvemonth lived by other men, Whose high-strung souls are ardent and intense.

But having seen all depths and scaled all heights, Having a heart love thrilled, and sorrow wrung, Knowing all pains, all pleasures, all delights, Now I would die--but cannot, being young.

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