Love’s Language

 

Elizabeth Wells

 

How does Love speak?

In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,

And in the pallor that succeeds it; by

The quivering lid of an averted eye—

The smile that proves the parent to a sigh—

Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?

By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak

Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,

While new emotions, like strange barques, make

Along vein-channels their disturbing course;

Still as the dawn, and with the dawn’s swift force –

Thus doth Love speak.

 

How does Love speak?

In the avoidance of that which we seek—

The sudden silence and reserve when near—

The eye that glistens with an unshed tear—

The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,

As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast,

And knows, and names, the greets its god-like guest –

Thus doth Love speak.

How doth Love speak?

In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek—

The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender

And unnamed light that floods the world with splendour,

In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace

In all things to one beloved face;

In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;

In looks and lips that can no more dissemble—

Thus doth Love speak.

How doth Love speak?

In the wild words that uttered seem so weak

They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire

Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,

Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;

In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,

Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,

Between the shores of keen delights and pains;

In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,

And in convulsive rapture of a kiss—

Thus doth Love speak.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Protest

 

John Vink

To sin by 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 childbearers toil 

To purchase ease for idle millionaires. 

Therefore I do 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 labor, let no man 

Call this the land of freedom. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The things that count

William Smith 

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Year

Antoine Janssens 



What can be said in New-Year rhymes,

That’s not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,

We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,

We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,

We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,

We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,

And that’s the burden of the year.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Things That Count

 

Sublimenati

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

Thanksgiving

We walk on starry fields of white 

And do not see the daisies; 

For blessings common in our sight 

We rarely offer praises. 

We sigh for some supreme delight 

To crown our lives with splendor, 

And quite ignore our daily store 

Of pleasures sweet and tender. 

Our cares are bold and push their way 

Upon our thought and feeling. 

They hand about us all the day, 

Our time from pleasure stealing. 

So unobtrusive many a joy 

We pass by and forget it, 

But worry strives to own our lives, 

And conquers if we let it. 

There’s not a day in all the year 

But holds some hidden pleasure, 

And looking back, joys oft appear 

To brim the past’s wide measure. 

But blessings are like friends, I hold, 

Who love and labor near us. 

We ought to raise our notes of praise 

While living hearts can hear us. 

Full many a blessing wears the guise 

Of worry or of trouble; 

Far-seeing is the soul, and wise, 

Who knows the mask is double. 

But he who has the faith and strength 

To thank his God for sorrow 

Has found a joy without alloy 

To gladden every morrow. 

We ought to make the moments notes 

Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; 

The hours and days a silent phrase 

Of music we are living. 

And so the theme should swell and grow 

As weeks and months pass o’er us, 

And rise sublime at this good time, 

A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox