Poems of Passion Part 1

Poems of Pa.s.sion.

by Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

PREFACE

Among the twelve hundred poems which have emanated from my too prolific pen there are some forty or fifty which treat entirely of that emotion which has been denominated "the grand pa.s.sion"--love. A few of those are of an extremely fiery character.

When I issued my collection known as "Maurine, and Other Poems," I purposely omitted all save two or three of these. I had been frequently accused of writing only sentimental verses; and I took pleasure and pride in presenting to the public a volume which contained more than one hundred poems upon other than sentimental topics. But no sooner was the book published than letters of regret came to me from friends and strangers, and from all quarters of the globe, asking why this or that love poem had been omitted. These regrets were repeated to me by so many people that I decided to collect and issue these poems in a small volume to be called "Poems of Pa.s.sion." By the word "Pa.s.sion" I meant the "grand pa.s.sion" of love. To those who take exception to the t.i.tle of the book I would suggest an early reference to Webster's definitions of the word.

Since this volume has caused so much agitation throughout the entire country, and even sent a tremor across the Atlantic into the Old World, I beg leave to make a few statements concerning some of the poems.

The excitement of mingled horror and amaze seems to center upon four poems, namely: "Delilah," "Ad Finem," "Conversion," and "Communism."

"Delilah" was written and first published in 1877. I had been reading history, and became stirred by the power of such women as Aspasia and Cleopatra over such grand men as Antony, Socrates, and Pericles. Under the influence of this feeling I dashed off "Delilah," which I meant to be an expression of the powerful fascination of such a woman upon the memory of a man, even as he neared the hour of death. If the poem is immoral, then the history which inspired it is immoral. I consider it my finest effort.

"Ad Finem" was written in 1878. I think there are few women of strong character and affections who cannot, from either experience or observation, understand the violent intensity of regret and despair which sometimes takes possession of the human heart after the loss by death, fate, or the force of circ.u.mstances, of some one very dear.

In "Ad Finem" I intended to give voice to this very common experience of almost every heart. Many n.o.ble women have since told me that the poem was true to life. It is not, as many people have wilfully or stupidly construed it, a bit of poetical advice to womankind to "barter the joys of Paradise" for "just one kiss." It is simply an ill.u.s.tration of a moment of turbulent anguish and vehement despair, such moments of unreasoning and overwhelming sorrow as the most moral people may experience during a lifetime.

In "Communism" I endeavored to use a new simile in ill.u.s.trating that somewhat hackneyed theme of the supremacy of Love over Reason; and simply to carry out my idea I represented the violent uprising of the Communist emotions against King Reason.

"Conversion" was suggested to me by the remark of a gentleman friend. In speaking to me of the woman he loved, he said: "I have always been a skeptic regarding the existence of heaven, but I am so much happier in my love for this woman than I ever supposed it possible for me to be on earth that I begin to believe that the tales of heavenly raptures may be true."

I embodied his idea in the poem which has brought, with a few others, so much censure and criticism upon this volume, although it contains nearly seventy-five other selections quite irreproachable in character, however faulty they may be in construction.

It is impossible to pursue a successful literary career and follow the advice of all one's "best friends." I have received severe censure from my orthodox friends for writing liberal verses. My liberal friends condemn my devout and religious poems as "aiding superst.i.tion." My early temperance verses were p.r.o.nounced "fanatical trash" by others.

With all due thanks and appreciation for the kind motives which interest so many dear friends in my career, I yet feel compelled to follow the light which my own intellect and judgment cast upon my way, rather than any one of the many conflicting rays which other minds would lend me.

ELLA WHEELER.

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

POEMS OF Pa.s.sION

[Ill.u.s.tration: "REJOICE, AND MEN WILL SEEK YOU"]

LOVE'S LANGUAGE.

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 patent 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 barges, 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 and greets its G.o.dlike guest-- Thus doth Love speak.

How does 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 splendor; In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace In all fair 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 does Love speak?

In the wild words that uttered seem so weak They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire Glance strikes with glance, swift flas.h.i.+ng high and higher Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm; In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm, Impa.s.sioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins Between the sh.o.r.es of keen delight and pains; In the embrace where madness melts in bliss, And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss-- Thus doth Love speak.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOVE'S LANGUAGE]

IMPATIENCE.

How can I wait until you come to me?

The once fleet mornings linger by the way, Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee At my unrest; they seem to pause, and play Like truant children, while I sigh and say, How can I wait?

How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours Refused to pause or loiter with me long; But now they idly fill their hands with flowers, And make no haste, but slowly stroll among The summer blooms, not heeding my one song, How can I wait?

How can I wait? The nights alone are kind; They reach forth to a future day, and bring Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind; And time speeds by on light and airy wing.

I feast upon your face, I no more sing, How can I wait?

How can I wait? The morning breaks the spell A pitying night has flung upon my soul.

You are not near me, and I know full well My heart has need of patience and control; Before we meet, hours, days, and weeks must roll.

How can I wait?

How can I wait? Oh, love, how can I wait Until the sunlight of your eyes shall s.h.i.+ne Upon my world that seems so desolate?

Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like wine; Until you come again, oh, love of mine, How can I wait?

COMMUNISM.

When my blood flows calm as a purling river, When my heart is asleep and my brain has sway, It is then that I vow we must part forever, That I will forget you, and put you away Out of my life, as a dream is banished Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes; That I know it will be, when the spell has vanished, Better for both of our sakes.

When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason, I know it is wiser for us to part; But Love is a spy who is plotting treason, In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.

They whisper to me that the King is cruel, That his reign is wicked, his law a sin; And every word they utter is fuel To the flame that smoulders within.

And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot With the fever of youth and its mad desires, When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet, When my breast seems the centre of lava-fires, Oh, then is the time when most I miss you, And I swear by the stars and my soul and say That I will have you and hold you and kiss you, Though the whole world stands in the way.

And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal, My fierce emotions roam out of their lair; They hate King Reason for being royal; They would fire his castle, and burn him there.

Oh, Love! they would clasp you and crush you and kill you, In the insurrection of uncontrol.