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Edition: 10

MAURINE AND OTHER POEMS

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Contents:

Maurine All Roads that Lead to God are Good Dust-sealed "Advice" Over the Banisters The Past Secrets Applause The Story Lean Down Life The Christian's New Year Prayer In the Night God's Measure A March Snow Philosophy "Carlos" The Two Glasses La Mort d'Amour Love's Sleep True Culture The Voluptuary The Coquette If Love's Burial Lippo "Love is Enough" Life is Love

MAURINE

PART I

I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune, Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June! Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair: The climbing rose-tree grew about me there, And checked with shade the sunny portico Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew.

I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick tread Upon the walk. No need to turn my head; I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding, Before his step upon the gravel bounding. In an unstudied attitude of grace, He stretched his comely form; and from his face He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees, With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze, And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes, Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes, And call it blue sometimes and sometimes green, And save in poet eyes, not elsewhere seen. "Lest I should meet with my fair lady's scorning, For calling quite so early in the morning, I've brought a passport that can never fail," He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail Upon my lap. "I'm welcome? so I thought! I'll figure by the letters that I brought How glad you are to see me. Only one? And that one from a lady? I'm undone! That, lightly skimmed, you'll think me SUCH a bore, And wonder why I did not bring you four. It's ever thus: a woman cannot get So many letters that she will not fret O'er one that did not come." "I'll prove you wrong," I answered gaily, "here upon the spot! This little letter, precious if not long, Is just the one, of all you might have brought, To please me. You have heard me speak, I'm sure, Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say She's coming out to see me; and will stay Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note, Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure. You'd know her by a letter that she wrote, For a sweet tinted thing. 'Tis always so:- Letters all blots, though finely written, show A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white Bespeak a nature honest, plain, upright. And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this, Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss." My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile; Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while, He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat. "Then all young ladies must be formed for that!" He laughed, and said. "Their letters read, and look, As like as twenty copies of one book. They're written in a dainty, spider scrawl, To 'darling, precious Kate,' or 'Fan,' or 'Moll.' The 'dearest, sweetest' friend they ever had. They say they 'want to see you, oh, so bad!' Vow they'll 'forget you, never, NEVER, oh!' And then they tell about a splendid beau - A lovely hat--a charming dress, and send A little scrap of this to every friend. And then to close, for lack of something better, They beg you'll 'read and burn this horrid letter.'"

He watched me, smiling. He was prone to vex And hector me with flings upon my sex. He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown, So he could tease me, and then laugh me down. My storms of wrath amused him very much: He liked to see me go off at a touch; Anger became me--made my colour rise, And gave an added lustre to my eyes. So he would talk--and so he watched me now, To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow. Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile, Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile. "The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn. Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield. Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn. There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes! Your statements usually hold more or less. Some women write weak letters-- Some make professions, knowing them untrue. And woman's friendship, in the time of need, I own, too often proves a broken reed. But I believe, and ever will contend, Woman can be a sister woman's friend, Giving from out her large heart's bounteous store A living love--claiming to do no more Than, through and by that love, she knows she can: And living by her professions, LIKE A MAN. And such a tie, true friendship's silken tether, Binds Helen Trevor's heart and mine together. I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace; For her white lily soul and angel face. She loves me, for my greater strength, maybe; Loves--and would give her heart's best blood for me. And I, to save her from a pain, or cross, Would suffer any sacrifice or loss. Such can be woman's friendship for another. Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?"

I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head Against the pillar of the portico, Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said: "Nay, surely not--if what you say be so. You've made a statement, but no proof's at hand. Wait--do not flash your eyes so! Understand I think you quite sincere in what you say: You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day; But friendship is not friendship at the best Till circumstances put it to the test. Man's, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear, While woman's, half profession, fails to wear. Two women love each other passing well - Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle, Just for example. Let them daily meet At ball and concert, in the church and street, They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress; Their love increases, rather than grows less; And all goes well, till 'Helen dear' discovers That 'Maurine darling' wins too many lovers.

And then her 'precious friend,' her 'pet,' her 'sweet,' Becomes a 'minx,' a 'creature all deceit.' 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 pray it may be so; it were not best To shake your faith in woman by the test. Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can. I've faith in woman's friendship too--for man! They're true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives: And that's enough to bless us all our lives. That man's a selfish fellow, and a bore, Who is unsatisfied and asks for more." "But there is need of more!" I here broke in. "I hold that woman guilty of a sin, Who would not cling to, and defend another, As nobly as she would stand by a brother. Who would not suffer for a sister's sake, And, were there need to prove her friendship, make 'Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost. Who would not do this for a friend is lost To every nobler principle." "Shame, shame!" Cried Vivian, laughing, "for you now defame The whole sweet sex; since there's not one would do The thing you name, nor would I want her to. I love the sex. My mother was a woman - I hope my wife will be, and wholly human. And if she wants to make some sacrifice, I'll think her far more sensible and wise To let her husband reap the benefit, Instead of some old maid or senseless chit. Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so: And I shall love my wife right well, I know. Now there's a point regarding selfish love, You thirst to argue with me, and disprove. But since these cosy hours will soon be gone, And all our meetings broken in upon, No more of these rare moments must be spent In vain discussions, or in argument. I wish Miss Trevor was in--Jericho! She wants to see you?--So do I: but she Will gain her wish, by taking you from me. 'Come all the same?' that means I'll be allowed To realize that 'three can make a crowd.' I do not like to feel myself de trop. With two girl cronies would I not be so? My ring would interrupt some private chat. You'd ask me in and take my cane and hat, And speak about the lovely summer day, And think--'The lout! I wish he'd kept away.' Miss Trevor'd smile, but just to hide a pout And count the moments till I was shown out. And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing, No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate, Will bar my entrance into Eden's gate; And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers At heaven's portal, paying the price of sin, Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in."

"I bow before the mandate of my queen: Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine," He answered, smiling, "I'm at your command; Point but one lily finger, or your wand, And you will find a willing slave obeying. There goes my dinner bell! I hear it saying I've spent two hours here, lying at your feet, Not profitable, maybe--surely sweet. All time is money; now were I to measure The time I spend here by its solid pleasure, And that were coined in dollars, then I've laid Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid. There goes that bell again! I'll say good-bye, Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky. I'll come again, as you would have me do, And see your friend, while she is seeing you. That's like by proxy being at a feast; Unsatisfactory, to say the least."

He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land With kingly grace. Passing the gate, his hand He lightly placed the garden wall upon, Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone.

And, going, took the brightness from the place, Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace, And my young soul, so steeped in happy dreams, Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams. There is a time with lovers, when the heart First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep, To all the tumult of a passion life, Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife. Just as a young, untutored child will start Out of a long hour's slumber, sound and deep, And lie and smile with rosy lips and cheeks, In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks. A time when yet no word the spell has broken, Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken, In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed, Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers, A golden glory to the passing hours, A hopeful beauty to the plainest face, And lends to life a new and tender grace. When the full heart has climbed the heights of bliss, And, smiling, looks back o'er the golden past, I think it finds no sweeter hour than this In all love-life. For, later, when the last Translucent drop o'erflows the cup of joy, And love, more mighty than the heart's control, Surges in words of passion from the soul, And vows are asked and given, shadows rise Like mists before the sun in noonday skies, Vague fears, that prove the brimming cup's alloy; 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.

But this blest hour, in love's glad, golden day, Is like the dawning, ere the radiant ray Of glowing Sol has burst upon the eye, But yet is heralded in earth and sky, Warm with its fervour, mellow with its light, While Care still slumbers in the arms of night. But Hope, awake, hears happy birdlings sing, And thinks of all a summer day may bring.

In this sweet calm, my young heart lay at rest, Filled with a blissful sense of peace; nor guessed That sullen clouds were gathering in the skies To hide the glorious sun, ere it should rise.

PART II

To little birds that never tire of humming About the garden in the summer weather, Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen's coming, As we two roamed, or sat and talked together. Twelve months apart, we had so much to say Of school days gone--and time since passed away; Of that old friend, and this; of what we'd done; Of how our separate paths in life had run; Of what we would do, in the coming years; Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears. All these, and more, as soon as we found speech, We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that. But at the first each only gazed on each, And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice Like lesser joys, to say, "Lo! I rejoice," With smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear, Contented just to know each other near. But when this silent eloquence gave place To words, 'twas like the rising of a flood Above a dam. We sat there, face to face, And let our talk glide on where'er it would, Speech never halting in its speed or zest, Save when our rippling laughter let it rest; Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play About a bubbling spring, then dash away. No wonder, then, the third day's sun was nigh Up to the zenith when my friend and I Opened our eyes from slumber long and deep: Nature demanding recompense for hours Spent in the portico, among the flowers, Halves of two nights we should have spent in sleep.

So this third day, we breakfasted at one: Then walked about the garden in the sun, Hearing the thrushes and the robins sing, And looking to see what buds were opening.

The clock chimed three, and we yet strayed at will About the yard in morning dishabille, When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o'er her head, Holding a letter in her hand, and said, "Here is a note, from Vivian I opine; At least his servant brought it. And now, girls, You may think this is no concern of mine, But in my day young ladies did not go Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro In morning wrappers, and with tangled curls, The very pictures of forlorn distress. 'Tis three o'clock, and time for you to dress. Come! read your note and hurry in, Maurine, And make yourself fit object to be seen."

"Now, now, Maurine!" cried Helen, "I believe It is your lover coming here this eve. Why have you never written of him, pray? Is the day set?--and when? Say, Maurine, say!"

Had I betrayed by some too fervent word The secret love that all my being stirred? My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so; But first HIS lips must win the sweet confession, Ere even Helen be allowed to know. I must straightway erase the slight impression Made by the words just uttered. "Foolish child!" I gaily cried, "your fancy's straying wild. Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name Of maid and youth uttered about one time, And off her fancy goes, at break-neck pace, Defying circumstances, reason, space - And straightway builds romances so sublime They put all Shakespeare's dramas to the shame. This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend, And kind companion; bringing books and flowers. And, by his thoughtful actions without end, Helping me pass some otherwise long hours; But he has never breathed a word of love. If you still doubt me, listen while I prove My statement by the letter that he wrote. 'Dying to meet--my friend!' . 'Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may Be in to greet him.' Now I think you'll say 'Tis not much like a lover's tender note."

We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say; We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken, And pass on heedless, till we find one day They've bruised our hearts, or left some other broken.

I sought my room, and trilling some blithe air, Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear. Momentous question! femininely human! More than all others, vexing mind of woman, Since that sad day, when in her discontent, To search for leaves, our fair first mother went. All undecided what I should put on, At length I made selection of a lawn - White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:- My simplest robe, but Vivian's favourite one. And placing a single flowret in my hair, I crossed the hall to Helen's chamber, where I found her with her fair locks all let down, Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown. 'Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play, To watch her make her toilet. She would stand, And turn her head first this, and then that way, Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band. Then she would pick up something else, and curve Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace, And watch the mirror while she put it on, With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face; And then to view it all would sway and swerve Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan.

Helen was over medium height, and slender Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies; And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender. Her long, light hair was lustreless, except Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept, And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls, Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness, That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress, That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white.

This strange force Is mightier than genius. Rightly used, It leads to grand achievements; all things yield Before its mystic presence, and its field Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused, It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course, Bearing miasma in its scorching breath, And leaving all it touches struck with death.

Far-reaching science shall yet tear away The mystic garb that hides it from the day, And drag it forth and bind it with its laws, And make it serve the purposes of men, Guided by common-sense and reason. Then We'll hear no more of seance, table-rapping, And all that trash, o'er which the world is gaping, Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause.

Vivian was not conscious of his power: Or, if he was, knew not its full extent. He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower, And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent Into the heart of woman the same thrill That made the lion servant of his will. And even strong men felt it.

He arose, Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own, While I held Helen's; and he spoke some word Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone, Unlike all other voices I have heard. Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows With roseate colours, so the pallid hue Of Helen's cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew. Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such Was the all-mast'ring magic of his touch. Then we sat down, and talked about the weather, The neighbourhood--some author's last new book. But, when I could, I left the two together To make acquaintance, saying I must look After the chickens--my especial care; And ran away and left them, laughing, there.

Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar grove, I waded, where my pets were wont to rove: And there I found the foolish mother hen Brooding her chickens underneath a tree, An easy prey for foxes. "Chick-a-dee," Quoth I, while reaching for the downy things That, chirping, peeped from out the mother-wings, "How very human is your folly! When There waits a haven, pleasant, bright, and warm, And one to lead you thither from the storm And lurking dangers, yet you turn away, And, thinking to be your own protector, stray Into the open jaws of death: for, see! An owl is sitting in this very tree You thought safe shelter. Go now to your pen." And, followed by the clucking, clamorous hen, So like the human mother here again, Moaning because a strong, protecting arm Would shield her little ones from cold and harm, I carried back my garden hat brimful Of chirping chickens, like white balls of wool And snugly housed them.

And just then I heard A sound like gentle winds among the trees, Or pleasant waters in the summer, stirred And set in motion by a passing breeze. 'Twas Helen singing: and, as I drew near, Another voice, a tenor full and clear, Mingled with hers, as murmuring streams unite, And flow on stronger in their wedded might.

It was a way of Helen's, not to sing The songs that other people sang. She took Sometimes an extract from an ancient book; Again some floating, fragmentary thing. And such she fitted to old melodies, Or else composed the music. One of these She sang that night; and Vivian caught the strain, And joined her in the chorus, or refrain,

SONG.

Oh thou, mine other, stronger part! Whom yet I cannot hear, or see, Come thou, and take this loving heart, That longs to yield its all to thee, I call mine own--oh, come to me! Love, answer back, I come to thee, I come to thee.

This hungry heart, so warm, so large, Is far too great a care for me. I have grown weary of the charge I keep so sacredly for thee. Come thou, and take my heart from me. Love, answer back, I come to thee, I come to thee.

I am a-weary, waiting here For one who tarries long from me. Oh! art thou far, or art thou near? And must I still be sad for thee? Or wilt thou straightway come to me? Love, answer, I am near to thee, I come to thee.

The melody, so full of plaintive chords, Sobbed into silence--echoing down the strings Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings. Vivian had leaned upon the instrument The while they sang. But, as he spoke those words, "Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee," He turned his grand head slowly round, and bent His lustrous, soulful, speaking gaze on me. And my young heart, eager to own its king, Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light Of love and faith, and hung upon my cheek Hope's rose-hued flag. There was no need to speak I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. "Sing That song you sang a fragment of one night Out on the porch, beginning, 'Praise me not,'" I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone Rose, low and tender, as if she had caught From some sad passing breeze, and made her own, The echo of the wind-harp's sighing strain, Or the soft music of the falling rain.

SONG.

O praise me not with your lips, dear one! Though your tender words I prize. But dearer by far is the soulful gaze Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes, Your tender, loving eyes.

Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; Above, in the beaming skies, 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 winged 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! Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this? I hear you, but you have no light in there. Your room is dark as Egypt. What a way For folks to visit! Maurie, go, I pray, And order lamps." And so there came a light, And all the sweet dreams hovering around The twilight shadows flitted in affright: And e'en the music had a harsher sound. In pleasant converse passed an hour away: And Vivian planned a picnic for next day - A drive the next, and rambles without end, That he might help me entertain my friend. And then he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight, Like some great star that drops out from the night; And Helen watched him through the shadows go, And turned and said, her voice subdued and low, "How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine, A grander man I never yet have seen."

One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year; One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirth, With not a hint of shadows lurking near, Or storm-clouds brewing.

'Twas a royal day: Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth, With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast, And twined herself about him, as he lay Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest. She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace, And hid him with her trailing robe of green, And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen, And rained her ardent kisses on his face. Through the glad glory of the summer land Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand. In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field, White with the promise of a bounteous yield, Across the late shorn meadow--down the hill, Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till We stood upon the borders of the lake, That like a pretty, placid infant, slept Low at its base: and little ripples crept Along its surface, just as dimples chase Each other o'er an infant's sleeping face. Helen in idle hours had learned to make A thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks: For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands - Labour just suited to her dainty hands. That morning she had been at work in wax, Moulding a wreath of flowers for my room, - Taking her patterns from the living blows, In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom, Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose, And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch, Resembling the living plants as much As life is copied in the form of death: These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.

And now the wreath was all completed, save The mermaid blossom of all flowerdom, A water-lily, dripping from the wave. And 'twas in search of it that we had come Down to the lake, and wandered on the beach, To see if any lilies grew in reach. Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been; Some buds, with all their beauties folded in, We found, but not the treasure that we sought. And then we turned our footsteps to the spot Where, all impatient of its chain, my boat, The Swan, rocked, asking to be set afloat. It was a dainty row-boat--strong, yet light; Each side a swan was painted snowy white: A present from my uncle, just before He sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand, Where freighted ships go sailing evermore, But none return to tell us of the land. I freed the Swan, and slowly rowed about, Wherever sea-weeds, grass, or green leaves lifted Their tips above the water. So we drifted, While Helen, opposite, leaned idly out And watched for lilies in the waves below, And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air, That soothed me like a mother's lullabies. I dropped the oars, and closed my sun-kissed eyes, And let the boat go drifting here and there. Oh, happy day! the last of that brief time Of thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright, Ere that disguised angel men call Woe Leads the sad heart through valleys dark as night, Up to the heights exalted and sublime. On each blest, happy moment, I am fain To linger long, ere I pass on to pain And sorrow that succeeded.

From day-dreams, As golden as the summer noontide's beams, I was awakened by a voice that cried: "Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither bound?" And, starting up, I cast my gaze around, And saw a sail-boat o'er the water glide Close to the Swan, like some live thing of grace; And from it looked the glowing, handsome face Of Vivian.

"Beauteous sirens of the sea, Come sail across the raging main with me!" He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boat Beside his own. "There, now! step in!" he said; "I'll land you anywhere you want to go - My boat is safer far than yours, I know: And much more pleasant with its sails all spread. The Swan? We'll take the oars, and let it float Ashore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there - Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes! I've reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes. Adieu despondency! farewell to care!"

'Twas done so quickly: that was Vivian's way. He did not wait for either yea or nay. He gave commands, and left you with no choice But just to do the bidding of his voice. His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly face Lent to his quick imperiousness a grace And winning charm, completely stripping it Of what might otherwise have seemed unfit. Leaving no trace of tyranny, but just That nameless force that seemed to say, "You must." Suiting its pretty title of the Dawn, , Vivian's sail-boat was carpeted with blue, While all its sails were of a pale rose hue. The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze; A poet's fancy in an hour of ease.

Whatever Vivian had was of the best. His room was like some Sultan's in the East. His board was always spread as for a feast, Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest. He would go hungry sooner than he'd dine At his own table if 'twere illy set. He so loved things artistic in design - Order and beauty, all about him. Yet So kind he was, if it befell his lot To dine within the humble peasant's cot, He made it seem his native soil to be, And thus displayed the true gentility.

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