Ella Wheeler Wilcox: A Major Poet, 1901
The Meeting of the Centuries
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Note: by convention, a century (or a millennium) begins on January 1 of a year ending with a "01" -- thus, January 1, 2001 was the first day of the 21st century, and January 1, 1901 was the first day of the 19th century.
THE MEETING OF THE CENTURIES.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Poems of Power, 1901
A CURIOUS
vision, on mine eyes unfurled
In the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see,
Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-a-vis,
Across the great round table of the world.
One with suggested sorrows in his mien
And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought.
And one whose glad expectant presence brought
A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.
Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space,
The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one
(As grave paternal eyes regard a son)
Gazing upon that other eager face.
And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray
As the sea's monody in winter time,
Mingled with tones melodious, as the chime
Of bird choirs, singing in
the dawns of May.
THE OLD CENTURY SPEAKS:
By you, Hope stands. With me, Experience walks.
Like a fair jewel in a faded box,
In my tear-rusted heart, sweet pity lies.
For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes,
And those bright-hued ambitions, which I know
Must fall like leaves and
perish in Time's snow,
(Even as my soul's garden stands bereft,)
I give
you pity! 'tis the one gift left.
THE NEW CENTURY:
Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but Godspeed,
Here in the morning of
my life I need.
Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears,
To guide
me through the channels of the years.
Oh, I am blinded by the blaze of
light
That shines upon me from the Infinite.
Blurred is my vision by the
close approach
To unseen shores, whereon the times encroach.
THE OLD CENTURY:
Illusion, all illusion. List and hear
The Godless cannons, booming far
and near.
Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed
For pilot, lo! the
pirate age in speed
Bears on to ruin. War's most hideous crimes
Besmirch
the record of these modern times.
Degenerate is the world I leave to you, --
My happiest speech to earth will be -- adieu.
THE NEW CENTURY:
You speak as one too weary to be just.
I hear the guns-I see the greed and lust.
The death throes of a giant evil fill
The air with riot and confusion. Ill
Ofttimes makes fallow ground for
Good; and Wrong
Builds Right's foundation, when it grows too strong.
Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand
The trust you leave in my
all-willing hand.
THE OLD CENTURY:
As one who throws a flickering taper's ray
To light departing feet, my
shadowed way
You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man.
Alas, that
my poor foolish age outran
Its early trust in God. The death of art
And
progress follows, when the world's hard heart
Casts out religion. 'Tis the
human brain
Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means gain.
THE NEW CENTURY:
Faith is not dead, tho' priest and creed may pass,
For thought has
leavened the whole unthinking mass.
And man looks now to find the God
within.
We shall talk more of love, and less of sin,
In this new era. We
are drawing near
Unatlassed boundaries of a larger sphere.
With awe, I
wait, till Science leads us on,
Into the full effulgence of its dawn.
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