a girl's autumn reverie

by ella wheeler wilcox

illustrations by adelaide wylde bunch

We plucked a red rose, you and I All in the summer weather; Sweet its perfume and rare its bloom, Enjoyed by us together. The rose is dead, the summer fled, And bleak winds are complaining; We dwell apart, but in each heart We find the thorn remaining. We sipped a sweet wine, you and I, All in the summer weather. The beaded draught we lightly quaffed , And filled the glass together. Together we watched its rosy glow, And saw its bubbles glitter; Apart, alone, we only know The lees are very bitter We walked in sunshine, you and I, All in the summer weather. The very night seemed noonday bright. When we two were together. I wonder why with our good-by O'er hill and vale and meadow There fell such shade, our paths seemed laid Forevermore in shadow. We dreamed a sweet dream, you and I, All in the summer weather, Where rose and wine and warm sunshine Were mingled in together. We dreamed that June was with us yet, We woke to find December. We dreamed that we two could forget, We woke but to remember.

"it might have been"

by ella wheeler wilcox

illustrations by adelaide wylde bunch

We will be what we could be. Do not say, "It might have been, had not this, or that, or this." No fate can keep us from the chosen way; He only might who is. We will do what we could do. Do not dream Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve. I hold, all men are greatly what they seem; He does, who could achieve. We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height. What eagle ever missed the peak he sought? He always climbs who might. I do not like the phrase "It might have been!" It lacks force, and life's best truths perverts: For I believe we have, and reach, and win, Whatever our deserts.

a glass of wine

by ella wheeler wilcox

illustrations by konrad kraus

What's in a glass of wine? ' There, set the glass where I can look within. Now listen to me, friend, while I begin And tell you what I see- What I behold with my far-reaching eyes, And what I know to be Below the laughing bubbles that arise Within this glass of wine. There is a little spirit, night and day, That cries one word, for ever and alway: That single word is 'More!' And whoso drinks a glass of wine, drinks him: You fill the goblet full unto the brim, And strive to silence him. Glass after glass you drain to quench his thirst, Each glass contains a spirit like the first; And all their voices cry Until they shriek and clamor, howl and rave, And shout 'More!' noisily, Till welcome death prepares the drunkard's grave, And stills the imps that rave. That see I in the wine: And tears so many that I cannot guess; And all these drops are labelled with 'Distress.' I know you cannot see. And at the bottom are the dregs of shame: Oh! it is plain to me. And there are woes too terrible to name: Now drink your glass of wine.