Ella Wheeler Wilcox – A Song Of Life

In the rapture of life and of living,

I lift up my head and rejoice,

And I thank the great Giver for giving

The soul of my gladness a voice.

In the glow of the glorious weather,

In the sweet-scented, sensuous air,

My burdens seem light as a feather –

They are nothing to bear.

In the strength and the glory of power,

In the pride and the pleasure of wealth

(For who dares dispute me my dower

Of talents and youth-time and health?) ,

I can laugh at the world and its sages –

I am greater than seers who are sad,

For he is most wise in all ages

Who knows how to be glad.

I lift up my eyes to Apollo,

The god of the beautiful days,

And my spirit soars off like a swallow,

And is lost in the light of its rays.

Are tou troubled and sad? I beseech you

Come out of the shadows of strife –

Come out in the sun while I teach you

The secret of life.

Come out of the world – come above it –

Up over its crosses and graves,

Though the green earth is fair and I love it,

We must love it as masters, not slaves.

Come up where the dust never rises –

But only the perfume of flowers –

And your life shall be glad with surprises

Of beautiful hours.

Come up where the rare golden wine is

Apollo distills in my sight,

And your life shall be happy as mine is,

And as full of delight.

Rabindranath Tagore – Lost Time

On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.

But it is never lost, my lord.

Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,

buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed

and imagined all work had ceased.

In the morning I woke up

and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

James Oppenheim – Immoral

I keep walking around myself, mouth open with amazement:

For by all the ethical rules of life, I ought to be solemn and sad,

But, look you, I am bursting with joy.

I scold myself:

I say: Boy, your work has gone to pot:

You have scarcely enough money to last out the week:

And think of your responsibilities!

Whereupon, my heart bubbles over,

I puff on my pipe, and think how solemnly the world goes by my window,

And how childish people are, wrinkling their foreheads over groceres and rent.

For here jets life fresh and stinging in the vivid air:

The winds laugh to the jovial Earth:

The day is keen with Autumn's fine flavor of having done the year's work.

Earth, in her festival, calls her children to the crimson revels.

The trees are a drunken riot: the sunshine is dazzling...

Yes, I ought, I suppose, to be saddened and tragic:

But joy drops from me like ripe apples.

John Keats – O Blush Not So

O BLUSH not so! O blush not so!

Or I shall think you knowing;

And if you smile the blushing while,

Then maidenheads are going.

There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,

And a blush for having done it;

There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,

And a blush for just begun it.

O sigh not so! O sigh not so!

For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;

By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips

And fought in an amorous nipping.

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,

For it only will last our youth out,

And we have the prime of the kissing time,

We have not one sweet tooth out.

There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,

And a sigh for "I can't bear it!"

O what can be done, shall we stay or run?

O cut the sweet apple and share it!

James Oppenheim – Bread and Roses

As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,

A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,

Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,

For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!

As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men,

For they are women's children, and we mother them again.

Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;

Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.

As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead

Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread.

Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.

Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too.

As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days,

The rising of the women means the rising of the race.

No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,

But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses.

Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;

Hearts starve as well as bodies; bread and roses, bread and roses.

The American Magazine, December, 1911.