Part 1 (1/2)

Yesterdays.

by Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

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 Hanc.o.c.k (my only authorised publishers in Great Britain), and contains verses written in my early youth, and which never before (with the exception, perhaps, of three or four) 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 (to my emaciated purse), and so the slightest experience of my own, or of any friend, with every pa.s.sing 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

ELLA WHEELER WILc.o.x.

_August_ 1910.

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 pa.s.sion 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.

Nothing is left me, but supreme despair; The bitter dregs that tell of wasted wine.

Come furrowed brow, dull eye, and frosted hair, Companions fit for this old heart of mine.

WARP AND WOOF

Through the suns.h.i.+ne, and through the rain Of these changing days of mist and splendour, I see the face of a year-old pain Looking at me with a smile half tender.

With a smile half tender, and yet all sad, Into each hour of the mild September It comes, and finding my life grown glad Looks down in my eyes, and says 'Remember.'

Says 'Remember,' and points behind To days of sorrow, and tear-wet lashes; When joy lay dead and hope was blind, And nothing was left but dust and ashes.