Poems

Front matter

POEMS

GENEVIEVE HALE WHITLOCK

Genevieve Hale Whitlock

Memorial

The birth-place of

Genevieve Hale Whitlock

Wilton, Conn.

Genevieve Hale Whitlock.

October 5, 1875, and March 1, 1903, are the milestones which mark the earthly footprints of Genevieve Hale Whitlock.

Over the circumstances and conditions of birth as children we have no choice, but when the right of a child to be well born is recognized by parents, we call such a child "fortunate."

Miss Whitlock was well born. She came into possession of a mental and moral heritage and a home atmosphere in which it was as natural for a soul to grow Godward as it is for the flowers of the meadow to grow by the help of sun and soil and moisture.

A home by the quiet country roadside—an old mill by the stream, beyond the stream a wooded hillside, and stretching away out in front, broad meadow-lands with varying hues of winter and summer color.

The intellectual atmosphere of the home and the romantic and picturesque surroundings were entirely conducive to the highest development of the naturally vivid imagination of the child.

The child was a little dreamer. She played alone. At a very early age she began to write stories—romances. Her first attempt at verse was made when she was twenty, and she continued until strength failed her her. Her poems are her best biography. They are rescripts of her heart life.

About a year after the death of her father, with mature Christian character Miss Whitlock united with the church at the age of nineteen. and a year later she entered upon her literary career as a writer for "The South Norwalk Sentinel."

She had a journalistic bias. It was a joy for her to write, and she wrote joyfully, though often with tears. Those who knew her intimately observed an element of melancholy, but one of the distinctive features of her writings, both of prose and poetry, is the utter absence of a pessimistic note.

It is true that "love's strength standeth in love's sacrifice, and he who suffers most hath most to give." Her thought was balm to wounded spirits; perhaps it was because it was the essence of her own breaking and sorrowful heart. This characteristic was not confined to her written thoughts, but was even more evident in the wonderful pervasive atmosphere of love which surrounded her personality. In an atmosphere like this, criticism dulls its edge. The impersonal center is innocuous to the trivialities which worry and perplex the more personal,—the seeker after applause. This impersonal element was at once her glory and her defeat. Glory in things eternal and defeat in the ephemeral—the things of an hour. Her defeat also, in that it obscured her from the multitude. Few people knew her. Her friends in the church, her associates in the press, and a great number of social acquaintances, were utterly unacquainted with her.

A soul of that type is never known, save by the few who live on the same plane.

Her work as a reporter was always more than a frail body like hers could bear; and though of the highest order, it brought her, especially in the larger cities, a merely nominal remuneration.

Two pathways were open to Miss Whitlock, either of which would have brought her a measure of success. One to follow the path preferred for her by her friends. To teach school, perhaps, or prepare for some perfunctory social service of a kindred nature. To be as other gifted girls—to enjoy society. To "put her talent to a better use." The other pathway, to write the kind of sensational journalism so much in demand in these days.

Many of her friends failed to understand why she chose a pathway all her own. To do her own work—to be herself. She had no apology to offer. She never explained, but the secret of her choice was a belief which colors all her writings and pervaded the atmosphere of her life—a belief in the religion of Jesus Christ.

It was her devotion to Christ—her will—her powerful will to make him first, that led her to repeat the experience of Rose La Touche. She differed from the experience of Ruskin's pupil in this, that she was first the bride of poverty, and then the bride of death—may, rather the bride of Christ.

Responding to a midnight knock at our door one stormy winter's night, we found her, weary and wet and weak. She had been among the striking Italians, listening to their story of wrong and oppression until the cars had ceased to run, and she was unable to walk home. Thrice blessed the roof which shelters such a visitor!

Like Beecher, she had "a bent for the under dog." She loved the poor—not as a doler-out of alms, but as one of them. Only such—so it seems tome—ever find the truest way to help. Some time before she passed away she seemed to have discovered her place in the realm of thought as it relates to the question of poverty. "Mother," she said joyously, triumphantly, and with a most engaging smile, "I know what I am—I am a Christian Socialist!" She seemed so happy to discover a solution of the problem of her relationship to the want and misery of the world. There was a ring of the sweetest defiance in it too—as though she looked into the future, and saw the courage needed in her adoption of a creed as yet despised and rejected by the majority of church people. From this avowal her pen seemed more than ever before to carry added love and sympathy.

She too was of the overworked and underpaid, but no word of complaint ever escaped her lips. Her sufferings were poignant—her disappointments keen. Nevertheless she ever chanted the beauties of the pure and true, and, like the character of Dante's portrayal, she could have gone through hell conscious only of the good! Such souls are rare—so rare! No one will ever take her place. Her songs are here. They breathe the pure spirit of one of whom the world was not worthy. One who gave all, and in return got so little!

It was ever thus—but for such souls there is no death. Though dead, she still speaketh; though absent in the body, she is with us in spirit—the spirit of service.

ALEX. F. IRVINE.

New Haven, February, 1906.

The Creed

Father Almighty, King of worlds and men, Maker and Molder, Majesty Divine, Beyond the long-reaching hand of finite time— All cycles one to Thine omniscient ken; Lord of all lords, stilling the deathless sea, Life of all lives, who find their source in Thee, The unmeasured Life, most perfect Trinity, Who wast and art and evermore shall be— God, I believe in Thee.

"God can Forgive Us All but Our Despairing"

ppoem| {l}<>POEMS OF THE SOUL.

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{l} "God can forgive us all but our despairing."

Remember that, O man!

All sins are naught to doubt of His all-caring,

Or fear of His great plan.

Beyond

February, 1903.

I Have Lived, I Have Loved, I Have Suffered

I have lived, I have loved, I have suffered, And now, and now, what if I die? What is death but the opened secret? What is death but the answering, Why?

What is death but the passing over? What is death but the glad release? What is death but the victor's triumph? What is death but the pæan of peace?

1902

With an Everlasting Love

Yet can I be so lost it shall require More than this thought to Bring me back to God? He loves me—yea, with everlasting love.

"Three Great Gifts I Offer Thee"

Yet, in letters, writ in blood, "Love to men," all plainly showed.

And around it, While glory shone above it, Gleamed a crown.

"Wealth, or fame, or—love divine! Choose thou—but one is thine."

Wealth I craved, and fame I loved, Yet my trembling heart was moved,

And I chose the crown that day, For my Lord had passed that way.

Winnipauk, June 15, 1900.

Christmas

And they knelt in the lowly stable there, While the cattle gazed with a wondering stare On the Virgin Mother so pure and mild, Who held in her arms the Holy Child. And they brought their tribute unto Him, The Child they found in the manger dim.

Centuries pass, and He who came, The homeless Child and heir of shame, Ruleth now with a mighty power. Kingdoms and Empires bring their dower. Pontiff and potentate bend at His feet; And the world repeateth the story sweet— How the Lord of all from His home on high Stooped for a sinful world to die— Came unto men His life to give, Lived as a man that men might live.

And His church is mighty, and fair, and strong, And the riches of nations to Him belong; And they who serve Him wax wise and great, And the noblest land is the Christian state, For the Cross hath conquered, and high we raise The sign despised of ancient days, For the Christ Child reigneth, and low at His feet The wise world's kingdoms lay offerings meet.

But still He comes to the hearts of men— Lo, He speaks and He waits—and speaks again— Softly and still as the little Child Who was born on Christmas of Mary mild.

And who shall find for Him room within, Shall shrived be from his ev'ry sin, And strong, yea, and safe shall He journey on, Till, at last, life's burden and battle done, Full blest and blissful he enters in To the royal realms of the saved from sin.

Then praise ye the name of the Holy Child Who was born of old unto Mary mild; And praise ye the love which in hearts of men Forever yearns to be born again.

"Yea, I Will Uphold Thee"

If I should come to call for Death, To seek him, as youth seeks the wine of Life, Yet be denied this greatest boon of all To die? What then?

Ah! then, altho' too hard for human strength to endure, Too hard for tongue to give it utterance, But still, though fire sore should burn and pain destroy This earthly tabernacle, I could wait— Knowing that when, for earth, all's said and done, My blessèd Lord doth wait to welcome home His wounded, suffering, sin-hurt, weary child— And so, or soon or late, I bide His time.

June 1, 1900.

"Ask and Receive"

Winnipauk, July 5, 1900.

An Easter Lily

Then knelt unto the Lord upon the throne, Asking, "How can I sing? With murmur and moan, Standing disconsolate by a low gravestone, Is one who needeth help; dear Lord, I go—"

The dear Lord looked upon him lovingwise, And answered, "Go—if soul hath need of thee; Thy song shall be the sweeter for thy deed."

And so the Angel stood beside the man, Bending beside his grave disconsolate, And whispered, "God is love, I come from God.

"Seest thou this lily, how from smallest seed, Sunk in the earth, it grew so white and fair? E'en so thy child hath risen. Harken there! For even now before our dear Lord's throne— Dost hear?—thy babe's voice in heavenly song

"Mingleth with angels' in the jubilee: 'The Lord is risen, yea from death is free, No more in tombs our loved ones cagèd be, For them and us our Lord brings victory.'"

The man raised up his eyes, his inner ear Had caught the sound of harmony divine. "It is my child," he cried, "my babe is there! Lord, now I believe, forgive, accept my prayer," While Easter sun shone radiant everywhere.

This Day Cometh Never Again

February, 1903.

"As a Little Child"

Again I turned to dying fire; The falling embers blazed in flame These differing ways shall bring one end, So that they lead to one great Name.

So thought I, musing on my child, Who, puzzled, came to me for light; I, too, might grasp through varying creeds, God's hand to lead me through the night.

Is it True That God Doth Care?

And I wonder if the labor And the tread of the hurrying feet Send up from these marts of madness An offering for Him meet.

All these weary little travelers, And the burdens that they bear— Doth One see and note their sorrows? Is it true that "God doth care "?

Then I turn from the 'wildering mazes To the peaceful stars above, And they send me back the answer, "It is true, for God is Love."

And I leave my lofty window With an holy sense of rest, For I feel the Love which foldeth Every traveler to its breast.

Hope On

And I said, "O Lord, I am weary! This dull world drags me down. How can I, through its sinning, E'er hope to reach my crown?"

Then methought I heard Him saying, "After strife comes victory; Just beyond this vale of suffering Lies the Kingdom of the Free.

"Pause not, O soul, nor waver! Rest in mine endless grace. I am thy strength and saver, Thy sure abiding-place.

"And in this blessed home-land They wait to welcome thee— All saints and holy martyrs In the Kingdom of the Free.

"They, too, have borne these sufferings, They, too, have travailed sore; But now they rest in glory, The weary journey o'er."

Victorious

For every grief a lethé comes, For every toil a rest. So hope, so love, so patient bear; God doeth all things best.

"To Make Life's Vision Life's Event"

Norwalk, Conn,

"Now and in the Hour of Death"

Save us, now, for Jesus' sake! In the hour of death, oh, hear us! Now, O Saviour, be Thou near us! Grant to have great strength to save, Be but near to make us brave.

"The Lord is Good"

"The Lord is good;" He bringeth out His People From Egypt's hand, And setteth them beside the shining rivers Of Canaan's land.

"The Lord is good;" He giveth daily manna For daily need. From out His bounteous storehouse of rich graces His children feed.

"The Lord is good;" 'tis writ in salient cipher On yonder shining stars; The Lord is good; it speaks in accents tender From sunset's crimson bars.

"The Lord is good;" the evening and the morning Sing forth His praise. The Lord is good; He raiseth righteous nations In length of days.

"The Lord is good;" my soul, repeat the story Yet o'er and o'er, And when thou thinkest thou hast learned it fully, Go learn it more.

"The Lord is good;" it rolleth down the ages. My soul, repeat This word than which no saga's song nor sage's Is half so sweet.

"The Lord is good;" beyond earth's tortuous pathways He holds a home, A palace fair, a most celestial mansion, For all His own.

New Haven, February, 1903.

Ole Death

"I'se ready?' Yes's; hol' tighter, wife; You've been a good girl all yoh life. Ben' yoh head down an' kiss me, so. Ah! now, dear God, I'se ready to go. Cum on, Ole Death.

"I Will Never Leave Thee nor Forsake Thee"

Then falter not though storms assail, Nor fear to breast the chastening gale. He'll hold thee up, pause not, Nor quail, my soul.

Christ is thy rock of sure defense, Thy fortress of strong permanence. Oh! trust thou in His excellence, For aye, my soul.

February, 1903.

"The Greatest of These"

Weary and heartsick or glad and elate, When we kneel at last by the golden gate, Only one word from our King above: Pilgrim from earth, hast thou learned there Love?"

"Faithful in Least"

But one day, having learned Some little lore Of patience sweet, I knelt again, more meekly Than of yore, At His dear feet.

"Dear Lord," said I, "that thing For which I longed, Must I forego it still? I would do something worthy Of Thy name If 'tis Thy will."

"My child," He spoke in accents Thrilling sweet, "I know thy love— Thinkest not the incense of A patient life Doth rise above?

"As for that thing thou plannedest For my joy In willing mood, Dear child, that plan of Thine could only cloy My kingdom's good.

"Here where I put thee, here Thou servest best;

Believe and be still; If I have other work for thee, I shall Make known my will."

So here I bide, seeking to Believe and love, And please Him, too, In little, lowly acts, though Nothing great He bids me do.

I work, and wait, and pray, With fervent prayer, That I may be Accounted faithful; then, when Work is done, His face to see.

Arise, Shine for Thy Light is Come

Arise, and shine; the world awaits thy shining. The tired world, the sin-sick, weary world Waits for thy candle with its light beams turning To 'luminate the darkness of its night.

The Daughter of the King

"And though some burdens I must bear, Yet always I may breathe a prayer, And One, I know, doth always care For Daughter of the King."

And so she sings along her way, Nearing her palace day by day, Nor fears to work as well as pray, This Daughter of the King.

"For All Things"

And the dregs of life are as life's red wine, If they but show us the life divine.

So we dare not choose and we will not care, But now or then, or here or there, We'll trust thee always and everywhere, And praise thee, O God.

Easter

Made a leafy green cover; The flowers from their places Turned up smiling faces; To her glad news bringing They seemed to be singing; "Lo, out of death's prison Our Sun is arisen To shine evermore;

'Tis He Who hath made us, 'Tis He Who life gave us; We bend low before Him, We praise and adore Him Who reigns evermore."

On, on to the city, In love and in pity, So swiftly she sped To where sad watch keeping, In care their souls steeping, His weary disciples Mourned lonely their dead.

Unto them told the story How the great King of Glory Hath conquered Death's night. "From the grave He hath risen, 'Tis no foolish vision, The stone's rolled away. Lo, His feet shod with light! Lo, He walketh in might! 'Tis His glad rising day."

O, sad souls in prison To you is the vision, Come out from your night. Why weeping here tarry? Go speed ye with Mary, Go find ye the light. The glad news then bear ye To where, steeped in care, ye Shall find His sad children Alone with their night.

O, tell it for glory, Yea, shout the glad story— He reigneth in might. For us He hath risen, Yea, opened Death's prison, The grave's conquered quite. And He dies nevermore, And we love and adore While we live in his light.

"Behold I Stand at the Door"

Lo, thy house will He Make full fair within, Sweep out old rubbish, And relics of sin; 'Tis the Lord Christ knocks,— Let Him in.

'Tis the Saviour waits; Give Him place. Look how the smile on His face, Reflecteth God's grace.

'Tis for thee, fallen son of thy race; 'Tis thy Saviour waits, Give Him place.

The Lord Christ stands At thy door. O sad soul, say whenever before Did ever so regal guest deign To plead with thy poor heart For place to reign?

How long will thou keep Him standing without, O strange, hard heart, With thy stubborn doubt? He waits, O, heart, Do thy part.

"Take My Life"

'Tis this I need, my child, Just this dear very thing; Bring me but this and thou shalt blessed be, Now and through eternity, And not thyself alone. To other hearts that moan, Thou shalt come bringing love, To raise their thoughts above, Giving of thine own joy Without alloy; O, blessed thou shalt be, Yea, blessing all that see, If thou bring this to me.

O, then, take this, dear Lord, This very thing— My glad heart-offering; I bring Thee but thine own, Break Thou this heart of stone With Thy divine, great love, That it may ever move In answer to Thy word. Then take my best, dear Lord, My choicest, dearest thing; Lo, gladly now I bring My very heart's delight, My joy by day or night— I offer Thee Who lovest me.

Peter, after Calvary

O Lord, could I erase that sad, sad line— That line that had not been were't not for me— Then could I breathe once more, to feel my Lord Did trust me—could forget I played Him false In that dread hour when most He needed faith.

Then let me live, O Lord, for only this— O let me live, nor slay me with Thy look, So I may prove, in trying days to come, I am not Peter false, but Peter true; To be that thing Thou sawest in my soul When Thou did'st give me my new name, "a rock," Peter—a rock—strong, steadfast for his Lord.

Who Loved Much

Then He did answer as the case did call, "To one a word of hope, of joy, reward; Sorrow for some that they had lost so dear, And tenderest sympathy for each and all. As: "I have known thy burdens, felt thy loss, Yea, suffered like as thee; thy life I lived in all, Tasted its myrrh, lifted its grievous cross; Well do I feel for thee; yet—it is past; Rejoice, O soul, O weary soul, rejoice; Earth's over now, the victory is won; Rest then, forevermore; rest, and rejoice."

Then, while I watched (hushed, and in awe I stood) Came, treading softly, with clasped hands, full slow, The spirit of a woman, meek and low; All humbly walked she, nor dared raise her eyes To Him who sat, the King, enthronèd wise.

"Why, thus so meek," I murmured in surprise, For sooth, in all that throng, no cleaner robe, No clearer brow I saw. Far off this pure soul passed, saintlike and high, As one who would be called ere she drew nigh.

Then sweeter far than holiest dream of earth, His voice I heard: "Who art thou, blessed spirit, that thou drawest nigh, With faltering step and dreary, heart-drawn sigh? Thinkest 'tis meet that one almost divine, With garments spotless white and fair as thine, Should pause, afraid. Who art thou? Speak—lo, I command thee, speak."

With that, so low, I scarce could catch the word, The answer came: "Lord, I am naught but this: A sinner lost on earth, unfit for bliss." Then lower yet, hands clasped and eyes unseen, "O Lord, O King divine, a Magdalene."

I trembled fearing, for I was of earth, Nor part had I in all this heavenly place; I looked for holy anger in His face, And dreadful anathema barring grace. Lo, when He spake I heard in dull amaze His voice; so kind, so heavenly kind it was: "Ah, Magdalene, I know thee well, Thou speakest truth—a sinner saved from hell—

"For life was hell to thee and each dark day But saw thee farther on thy darksome way; Yet saved by love, yea, saved indeed thou art, And blessed art thou; I have watched thee long And now I crown thee with the victor's palm.

"O Magdalene, thou wast forgiven much;" Low dropped her head; her tears fell down like rain; "Yet thou hast loved much. Yea, loved e'en them who loved thee not again, Who trampled on thy soul with bitter words, Casting the stone of righteous Pharisee; As who should pray with level-glancing eyes; 'We thank thee, Lord, that we are not as she, Our robes being white and clean.' Yet know they not That 'neath the All-seeing eye, they are more vile In their self-righteousness than such as thee."

He paused. "Thy sin was great—yet mercy still is greater, Greatest, love, which washed thy garments white. Now enter in, O soul, who lovest much, My kingdom fair has room for many such, Enter thou in, eternal joy be thine."

Then, from the waiting choir about the throne, Of angels and archangels breathing song, There stepped forth to obey the Lord's command, Two shining ones. These had no need of grace, Yet taking Magdalene by either hand— "Sister," they said,—and unshamed kissed her face. Then led her, pure, perfected e'en as they, Through those blest spirits standing near the throne, No whiter soul in all that shining throng.

Lo, the sweet vision faded from my sight, My soul returned to earth and earth's sad plight; Yet still I heard repeated o'er and o'er, The singing of the angels, as of yore They may have sung o'er hills of Bethlehem. And lo, the constant burden of their song Was this, and only this, repeated long, Repeated o'er and o'er with tuneful touch, But this: "She loved, our sister loved much."

Then all the halls of heaven caught the sound, And echoed and re-echoed it around; While Sons of Morning joining in their train Worlds upon worlds took up the sweet refrain,

Then I, sad son of earth, did ponder long: O, earth, old earth, when wilt thou learn the song, When wilt thou learn, though right can ne'er hide wrong, Though sin be sin and death to sin belong, That love is yet more strong?

"Mignonette"

"Ah, God, how sweet this flower, How sweet, how very sweet this little flower," And doth God frown, remembering all the flowers, The exquisite flowers, the radiant perfumed flowers, He gave in that lost spring-time?

O nay, not so, for He is very kind; He smiles instead that at the last We have learned patience; Yet gazing backward far along our way Where, crushed and trampled 'neath our feet they lay, So scornful we did fling them, recking naught Of autumn's day— His smile's exceeding sad, to think we were so long In learning it.

"Lo, I am with You, Alway"

Though lightnings dazzle and though thunders roll, Though great waves rising up would whelm my soul This is my comfort—He the crucified Stands ever by my side.

Then rest, soul, rest, rest and be satisfied— For not alone I go; Yea, to the end He steadfast will abide.

It is God's Way—His Will Be Done

tpp|It is God's Way—His Will Be Done.| {asc}<>PRESIDENT McKINLEY'S DYING WORDS. As ships that lie at anchor in the bay, Or float them slowly through still summer seas, Sometimes our lives drift idly, gladly, gay; We lift our faces to the favoring breeze, Enjoy the present, nor the future seize, And thank kind Heaven for a sunlit day— How easy then "Thy will be done" to say. |end=follow

Then comes the tempest, wild the rough winds rage, Full fiercely riseth up th' encircling sea, Reaching out arms of death to draw us down, Down, down to our destruction and our doom. Our ship is sinking and we see our end; As drowning men, we clutch at every straw That offers help, yet all alike are vain. Our ship sinks, we are lost, O, happy he Who, in such crisis of mortality, Clings still to faith he knew in other days— Those sunlit days when all the way being clear He floated calmly over Life's glad seas— Who still can say, though Death's waves o'er him roll, "It is God's will—His way—be still, my soul."

Morning Praise Song

Hide not thy face from us, Though all else flee, Richer than kings of earth Have we but Thee; Bathed in the light of thy countenance, Valiant and happy are we.

Father, triumphantly, gladly we raise Here, on thine altar Our tribute of praise; Spread peace among us, Smile Thou upon us, O blest Creator, the light of our days.

God's Love

And still unto my rock of self I clung so sullenly. A heart-torn thing, a wounded thing at strife, I clung for life to that which had no life.

Yet, as I lay there, lonely and unblessed, All eagerly There came a wave from God's great ocean wide, An engulfing wave, in an effulgent tide, O, blessedly, It surging in did tear my very soul Resistlessly From that rough rock Where I so long did bide Unrestingly. Then lifting me a helpless, happy thing, In folding arms of love so patiently It bore me out; Forever more to be, On His wide sea; In love to lose myself Infinitely.

Patience of the Poor

POEMS OF HUMANITY.

The worker faints, but murmurs in his swooning, "My work, 'tis not yet done," Then rises heavily and in position Catches the turning wheel— "I will, I must," for hard he feels his fellow Upon his heel. He needs the spur; it goads him on to action; To die? 'Twere sweet; But wife and children; at the door a creature That does not bleat— That does not bleat, but shows his teeth full grimly; Then what to do? He makes no question; while the life-blood courses He toils. And you?

You have heard my song, nor found it merry— I meant not that you should. Are you a child to dream of lords and ladies In some Enchanted Wood? You are no child? You bear the stamp of manhood? God's noblest stamp! Then bring all powers of mind and soul illumined By Science' lamp— Bring them to bear upon this fateful question, The problem of the poor Who have no better hope than just to labor And to endure. O Light, shed down Thy rays to help us solve it! For, sure, 'tis strangely sad That they who do our work should have so little To make them glad.

Each in His Own True Place

New Haven, February, 1903.

A Voice in the Valley

Then he turned his slow steps homeward As the moon rose o'er the hill, And he answered bird and angels, "Yea, I will, I will."

At Eventide

All Nature's calm and still; our souls repose In breath of twilight as of perfumed rose. The tired day's done; o'er Summer's fevered brow, Night lays her cooling hand with benediction now.

New Haven, February, 1903.

As was but Meet

Then, suddenly, I met a child at play, Who smiled upon me blessedly and gay, As trusting all the world; Then I smiled back with hopeful look akin, As was but meet.

When, lo, in answer to that simple act, My sun came out with glory as of Heaven, And all my path shone radiant with light.

The Builders

Bravely they build and sure, Sing as they climb. Long shall their work endure, Tested of Time.

Would'st thou too, build, my soul, Structure sublime? Song work is strong work, And this conquers time.

The Boatman's Song

They lift thy little boat And bear it on High ride the waves; Thou hast no helper like the winds of God, Who thy boat saves.