High Noon


TIME'S finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We cannot count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink
How brief the past, the future, still more brief
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly ? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong ? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lips
Be my reminder in temptation's hour
And keep me silent when I would condemn.
Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.

                                           Looking back,
My faults and errors seem like stepping stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And made me value virtue ; sorrows shine
In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years,
Where lie forgotten pleasures.
                                           Looking forth,
Out to the western sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.

Battling with fate, with men and with myself,
Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon,
Three things I learned, three things of precious worth,
To guide and help me down the western slope.
I have learned how to pray and toil and save ;
To pray for courage to receive what comes.
Knowing what comes to be divinely sent ;
To toil for universal good, since thus
And only thus can good come unto me ;
To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have
To those who have not--this alone is gain.                     ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

(Copyright, 1905, by William R. Hearst, for The Evening Bulletin.)

The Evening Bulletin [Philadelphia] 30 Aug. 1905: 7.

Courtesy of John M. Freiermuth.

Back to Poem Index