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AS I JOURNEY ON 
 
AS I JOURNEY ON 
 
 POEMS IN VARIOUS 
 MOODS 
 
 BY 
 
 William Curtis Wakefield 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 1907 
 

 Of this book there have been but 
 five hundred copies printed, each 
 of which is numbered. 
 
 This copy is NojUdA- 
 
 Gift 
 Author 
 (Person'* 
 
 n ji '07 
 
 THE TORCH PRESS 
 CEDAR RAPIOS. lA. 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
 In grateful and humble acknowledgment 
 of many, many years of faithful and 
 devoted service this volume is affection- 
 ately inscribed by the author. 
 
PEACE— AND A DREAM. 
 
 At the very first glimpse of the morning light, 
 
 E 'er the sun streams in thro ' my window, bright, 
 
 I'm up and about 
 
 And down and out 
 
 And over the fields, I make my way. 
 
 To my lofty throne, where I hold sway, 
 
 On the crest of the hill 'neath the great oak tree, 
 
 Where I list to the voice of the murmuring sea, 
 
 And the soul of Nature communes with me. 
 
 There, every day, from morn till night. 
 
 With never a one to dispute my right, 
 
 I rule my subjects as I will, 
 
 And they come and go, so silent and still, 
 
 Yet my thoughts they lead 
 
 And their voice I heed. 
 
 As they guide my humble hand and pen, 
 
 And show me the ways and the deeds of men. 
 
 My realm is the Kingdom of Thought, you see, 
 Where I am alone, and must always be, 
 Alone — alone with the wondrous muse, 
 Who will stir my soul and my heart enthuse. 
 Till it sings so happy and loud and long 
 That I scarce can trace its fervent song. 
 
 More oft my spirit is buoyant and glad, 
 Tho' I must confess I am sometimes sad, 
 And long for a loving and gracious queen — 
 Tho' none at my side is ever seen — 
 To quiet my moments when ill at ease 
 And with graceful form my eyes to please. 
 And my feet to lead, like a trusting dove. 
 In the rosy and fragrant paths of love. 
 
 Whene'er she comes she will welcome be, 
 And will share my throne, by the murmuring sea. 
 By the crest of the hill 'neath the great oak tree, 
 Where the soul of Nature communes with me. 
 
ANSWERED. 
 
 Oh, Time ! thou impatient master, 
 Thou King of the present and past — 
 
 Why art thou so eager and anxious, 
 To roll up the years so fast ; 
 
 Hast thou aught to add to my burden 
 Or some blessing to bring me at last? 
 
 I yearn for a rest in the struggle 
 
 As the days with their trials whirl by. 
 
 Canst thou not be patient one moment, 
 Be patient and list to my cry, — 
 
 Why needest thou taunt and oppress me 
 And all of my struggles defy ? 
 
 And the voice came hack from that unknown land, 
 "Canst thou, thou atom, understand?" 
 
 Thou hast joys in store in abundance, 
 
 And thou art a miser, I say, — 
 To deny me a share in thy bounty 
 
 To lighten my transient stay! 
 Has my soul not been purged in the fire, 
 
 Have I still more tribute to pay? 
 
 Aye! once thou gavest me blessings, — 
 
 And snatched them away again, 
 And I know I heard thy fiendish laugh 
 
 As thou heardest my wail of pain, 
 When I felt the scourge of thy pitiless lash 
 
 And pleaded for mercy in vain. 
 
 Then I felt the touch of a gentle hand 
 
 And heard the voice from the unhnown land, 
 
 "Be patient, and thou shalt understand." 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 I love to stand by the ocean grand, 
 And gaze o 'er the waters, vast and wide, 
 
 Like one who peers thro ' the vail of years 
 And strains to see the other side. 
 
 For surely some land is beyond the sea, 
 Tho' we do not know what that land may be. 
 
 'Neath skies serene, with lordly mien. 
 The white-winged ships abreast the main — 
 
 Tho' some that brave that dashing wave, 
 May never come back to port again. 
 
 For never a ship put out to sea 
 
 That ever could tell what the end might be. 
 
 On the ocean of life, with its ceaseless strife, 
 Like myriad ships, we come and go, 
 
 Now happy and glad, or weary and sad 
 
 When the storm is on and the clouds are low. 
 
 For some will go down midst the tempest's roar 
 And some will reach the other shore. 
 
 But each for its own, must struggle alone, 
 Whate'er prevails, howe'er forlorn, 
 
 And know at night, that the morning light 
 May see his lone, frail craft has gone. 
 
 But the Ancient Pilot, wise and good, 
 Knew how hard it was and has understood. 
 
THE KINGDOM, TWAIN. 
 
 Have you ever read on the pages of Time, 
 Of that limitless, endless realm, sublime. 
 
 That with man was born on creation day 
 And only with man shall pass away. 
 
 Where the dual monarchs contending reign, 
 For the sway and possession of man's domain. 
 
 The Grod of Right, with His spotless throng, 
 And the Evil hosts with the Demon of Wrong, 
 
 Who wage a long, remorseless strife. 
 To shape the ends of a human life. 
 
 These mighty Kings have found their place 
 In the aching breasts of the human race 
 
 Where life's the battle, the grave the goal, 
 And for prize to the victor, a deathless soul. 
 
 They fight for the Prince, in his regal state, 
 As hard for the beggar, beside his gate. 
 
 For the queenly beauty, fair and proud 
 And the commonest woman in all the crowd. 
 
 For the babe, asleep on its mother's breast. 
 For the heedless youth in his eager quest. 
 
 For the young and old, the high and low, — 
 From the day they come to the day they go. 
 
 For the good and bad, for the false and true. 
 For the sinful many, the sainted few. 
 
 For the shackled slave or the one who's free. 
 For you, and the least of all, for me. 
 
But choose we may and choose we must 
 Twixt the God of Love and the King of Lust. 
 
 For ours the power and ours the choice, 
 To heed the calling of either voice. 
 
 And cast our lot with the Demon wrong 
 Or battle and fight with the spotless throng. 
 
 Tho' none can know till the strife is done 
 Which of the dual Kings has won. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 Hope, the Goddess of the Soul, 
 
 Born at the dawn of Time, 
 
 To reign 
 
 Till Time shall be no more, 
 
 Whose form, divine, 
 
 The foul and darkening confines of the grave 
 
 Have never known 
 
 And never shall, 
 
 The child of God, 
 
 Thy Guardian Angel and thy truest friend. 
 
 In that same hour. 
 
 When on thy wondering sight 
 
 The radiant beauty of thy earthly morn 
 
 First cast its golden rays, 
 
 Hope came to thee 
 
 And took thy tiny hand. 
 
 To lead thee on o'er life's long winding road 
 
 With constant care. 
 
 No human power can wrench her from thy side 
 
 Or for one instant 'gainst her sway prevail. 
 
 And when thy day is done, 
 
 When low thy sun shall set 
 
 Behind the unknown land. 
 
 And falling shades of that long night of rest, 
 
 Encompass thee, 
 
 Stands she close by, 
 
 And all obeisant to her will 
 
 The still cold hand of Death 
 
 Takes on a soothing touch, 
 
 And falls upon thj' chilling brow, like soft caress. 
 
 E 'en though thou mayest sink into the foulest depths of sin, 
 
 Yet Hope survives. 
 
 E 'en though the world shall call thee cursed 
 
 And all thine own forsake 
 
 Yet hope survives. 
 
 E 'en though Despondency, with crushing force, 
 
 Falls on thy head, 
 
 Too weak to bear, 
 
 And thou, frail mortal. 
 
Fearful all is lost 
 
 Thyself destroy, 
 
 Yet Hope survives, 
 
 For when thou deemed that she had gone 
 
 Behold! 'Twas she, who beckoned on, 
 
 And for thine upward passage still 
 
 Flung wide the gates of Paradise. 
 
WORK, WORK, WORK. 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 That 's the lesson that Time teaches Man, 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 With patience and purpose and plan. 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 To win what you honestly can. 
 
 In your course thro' this world, where temptations are rife, 
 Be firm and courageous, abreast with the strife 
 And success will be yours, in the struggle of life, 
 If you 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 Work, work, work, 
 
 Whate'er be the ache in your breast. 
 Work, work, work, 
 
 With never a thought of rest. 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 For what is the right and is best. 
 
 You and I needn't worry and trouble and care, 
 If our trials and burdens we patiently bear. 
 And seek when we can another's to share 
 As we 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 There's no time to linger and sigh. 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 Wherever your task may lie. 
 Work, work, work, 
 
 As the golden moments whirl by. 
 
 You can pass many others in life's great race 
 And attain an honored and worthy place, 
 If the "present duty" you squarely face 
 And 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 
IN THIS MODERN GENERATION. 
 
 In this modern generation, 
 
 In this day of imitation, 
 
 When we strive to catch that phantom called "Success," — 
 
 And onward heedless racing 
 
 For this vision we are chasing 
 
 And seek its hollow pleasures to possess, — 
 
 We find 'tis but a bubble 
 
 That we get for all our trouble, 
 
 For all our days and nights devoid of rest, 
 
 And some day we will awaken 
 
 To find we have forsaken 
 
 The nobler ends of life that are the best. 
 
 Tho ' we may be wise and stealthy 
 
 And be counted rather wealthy, 
 
 Tho ' we 've left full many wrecks along the way, — 
 
 That brought ruin to another. 
 
 To some lone and weaker brother. 
 
 Who to our keener wits proved easy prey, — 
 
 Tho' we've never stopped to waver 
 
 But have fought our way to favor. 
 
 From our garments washed the bloodstains of the fray, — 
 
 Yet the time is surely coming 
 
 When Another does the summing 
 
 And strikes the perfect total of our day. 
 
 Oh ! How tiny are we mortals. 
 
 As we stand upon the portals 
 
 And gaze backward, down the endless road of time ; 
 
 Where we see the bones of sages. 
 
 Who have shaped the course of ages. 
 
 Mingled with the kings' and paupers' in the dirt and dust and 
 slime ; 
 
 See the haughty conqueror humbled ; 
 
 See the proudest nation crumbled — 
 
 Crushed and trampled by the power of that mighty force sub- 
 lime, — 
 
 Then we dare to be conceited, — 
 
 We, whose day is nigh completed, 
 
 Dare deny the God Who made us, then to face that Judge Divine. 
 
THE BROOK. 
 
 Down by yon whispering cedars, with their voice so soft and low, 
 Where murmuring thro' the green the brook flows on, 
 
 I spend the joyous springtime days, the happiest I know, 
 And listen to its sweet melodious song. 
 
 "With wondrous soothing harmony it fills my yearning heart, 
 
 And holds a charm I nowhere else enjoy. 
 But knowing that some distant day we two will have to part. 
 
 My every waking hour I there employ. 
 
 It tells to me a story and I listen to its tale, 
 
 The sweetest, saddest story ever told, 
 How onward still we all must go, whatever may prevail, 
 
 And let each day its weal or woe unfold. 
 
 It seems that in its early life that young, impatient brook, 
 
 That had its birth in some secluded spring. 
 Like you and I had wandered forth, its childhood home forsook 
 
 To see the world and what its course would bring. 
 
 To find at first its eager way was down the hillside steep 
 
 Where, leaping on from rock to rock it sped, 
 Then thro' the verdant perfumed fields did still its journey keep. 
 
 While cradled in its moss-grown, downy bed. 
 
 Now grown apace it rolled along as merry as could be 
 'er sandy stretch and 'neath the traveled road, 
 
 Till just below, close by the bridge, beneath a willow tree 
 It met its mate and with it onward flowed. 
 
 And thus united happily, each of the other took 
 
 And kept a pledge, to constant be and true, 
 As on they roamed or else reposed in some delightful nook 
 
 And only joyous sweet contentment knew. 
 
 But after many happy days their course abruptly changed 
 And down o'er frowning rocks they plunged in foam, 
 And mingled with the roaring flood, the river, wild and strange. 
 That carried them forever from their home. 
 
And thence that mighty river bore them to the unknown sea, 
 
 And parted them forever, in its tide, 
 And tho' 'tis said it is not known, not even unto me, 
 
 They met again upon the other side. 
 
 'Tis but a simple story, yet I ponder on its theme, 
 
 And know it holds alike a truth for thee. 
 For you and I must both be borne, upon that roaring stream 
 
 And sent adrift, into eternity. 
 
"LIFE." 
 
 Life, 
 
 That fleeting moment 
 
 In the existence of every soul, 
 
 When, 
 
 In its onward course, 
 
 From eternity past to eternity to come, 
 
 Enthroned within thyself, upon this earth. 
 
 It makes a brief abode. 
 
 Into thine own and unrestrained control 
 
 Hath Time's Eternal Sovereign, 
 
 This, 
 
 Of all His rarest and most precious gifts, 
 
 The best, 
 
 To thee released, 
 
 And thee endowed, with choice and power, 
 
 That it may nobler rise, 
 
 Or else decadent sink. 
 
 As thou shalt will. 
 
 See to it then. 
 
 That when the call shall come 
 
 And thy short reign be o 'er, 
 
 That thou art full prepared — 
 
 And canst 
 
 With pleasant and courageous mien, 
 
 Thy rule resign — 
 
 Not with reluctance and in doubt and fear 
 
 Lest on thy stewardship appear 
 
 Some stain, 
 
 And thee condemn — 
 
 But with a confidence, serene and calm. 
 
 Thy soul release, 
 
 Conscious 
 
 That rich laden with the perfume and the lustre of the well spent 
 
 years, 
 Shall onward still its course pursue — 
 Regretting only that so soon hath come the end. 
 That thou canst no more add, to what thou hast. 
 By further worthy and ennobled 
 Life. 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 I pause by the bridge o'er the river, 
 
 And list to its turbulent song, 
 And my soul is filled with its music 
 
 As it rushes and gushes along 
 O'er the jagged rocks, with defiant roar, 
 That stretch their arms from shore to shore, 
 As if they could check its eager course. 
 As it makes its way from its ancient source 
 To the waiting sea, 
 "Where its rest shall be 
 And from whence it returneth never more. 
 
 How like the soul is that restless flood 
 
 That onward, and onward still must go, 
 Whether through pastures green and bright, 
 
 Or dashed on the angry rocks below. 
 It must constant keep its weary way. 
 Till it finds its end in that widening bay 
 Where, joined by its mates that have gone before, 
 Its years of wandering shall be o'er; 
 And the joy it knows 
 Of that sweet repose 
 That comes at the close of life's short day. 
 
THOSE OLD APRON STRINGS. 
 
 I was strolling down the street the other day, 
 In an absent minded, careless sort of way, 
 When I met a lot of boys, in pursuit of childish joys; 
 And I paused to watch them in their eager play. 
 
 They were playing at an old familiar game, 
 
 Though I know it well, I don't recall the name, 
 
 "Where the older takes the lead, as he does some bolder deed. 
 
 And dares each one in turn to do the same. 
 
 How long I watched them there, I cannot tell. 
 When I heard the striking of the distant bell. 
 As it told the passing hour from its lofty wooden tower, 
 And broke in rudely on their happy spell. 
 
 The ringing of the bell had scarce begun. 
 
 When the oldest boy who led in all the fun, 
 
 Cried out, ' ' Gee ! I got to go, for I 'most forgot, you know, 
 
 I promised I'd go home when school was done." 
 
 "O don't go now," I heard them all join in, 
 "Don't you be tied to mother's apron-string." 
 But he answered " It is late and I shan 't let mother wait 
 Though I may be tied to her old apron-string. ' ' 
 
 When I heard that as I leaned against the tree, 
 
 Sweet memories of the past came back to me, 
 
 Of my early boyhood days, with their happy-hearted ways, — 
 
 Of those who've safely crossed life's troubled sea. 
 
 Though the years have brought to me an ample share 
 
 Of cloudy days, and days that have been fair, 
 
 Though my heart was fondly bound to another love I found, 
 
 Yet it ne'er to mother love could e'er compare. 
 
 How I'd tease her when her weary day was o'er 
 
 To play at horse with me, as oft before, 
 
 And I 'd seize those narrow bands in my tiny little hands. 
 
 And drive about that dear old kitchen floor. 
 
How those bands have wound themselves about my heart, 
 Through the tugging of the years, they never start, 
 O what joy will come to me when with mother I shall be, 
 And know we never more will have to part. 
 
 Ne'er you mind my little man, what they say, 
 
 But you cling the tighter still, day by day, 
 
 For you'll wake some dreary morn and you'll find that mother's 
 
 gone 
 And the strings you loved so well are laid away. 
 
THE OLD FOLKS. 
 
 They are sitting alone in the gray evening light, 
 And waiting the shades of the gathering night ; 
 Their days have been hard and their pleasures are spent, 
 And their backs, with the past and its sorrows, are bent. 
 They are waiting, waiting, waiting, 
 
 As the days go slowly by. 
 They are waiting for the shadow 
 
 When the final hour draws nigh, 
 They are lonely, lonely, lonely. 
 
 With no loving presence near. 
 And they long and hope and listen, 
 A familiar step to hear. 
 
 They dream of the little tots close by their knee. 
 And yearn their bright happy young faces to see. 
 And deep is the sigh that wells up from each heart, 
 And hot are the tears from their eyelids that start. 
 As they listen, listen, listen, 
 
 For the summons that they know 
 Is to come and ease their spirit 
 Of its burdens here below; 
 And they feel the soothing presence 
 
 In their loneliness and grief. 
 Of the kind and loving Father, 
 Who alone can bring relief. 
 
 Oh ! poor is the man or woman, indeed, 
 Whose eager home-coming no loving ones heed; 
 And where'er in your course through this world you may roam, 
 Remember, the old folks are waiting at home. 
 Then watch their feeble footsteps. 
 
 As their golden days go by, 
 By your presence, give them pleasure, 
 
 As their journey's end draws nigh; 
 Make the home reunions frequent. 
 With the solace that they bring. 
 That each aged soul in gladness 
 
 May in sweet contentment sing. 
 
OF AN EVENING. 
 
 I was poring o'er some letters, 
 
 That I'd fondly tucked away 
 With some other little trinkets, 
 On that dreary parting-day, 
 And I read again that message 
 
 That I 'd longed so much to hear : 
 
 "Yes, I love you truly, sweetheart, 
 
 And I 'm waiting for you, dear. ' ' 
 
 There's a bit of narrow ribbon, 
 
 And a crushed and faded rose. 
 And a photograph of baby, 
 In his very cutest pose, 
 With his mother smiling o'er him, 
 
 And her voice I seem to hear : 
 "Yes, I love you truly, sweetheart. 
 And I'm waiting for you, dear," 
 
 Then I feel her presence near me. 
 
 Coming from the shadow-land. 
 Feel her kiss upon my forehead. 
 And her soft caressing hand. 
 And she whispers to me sweetly 
 As she brushes off a tear, 
 "Yes, I love you truly, sweetheart. 
 And I'm waiting for you, dear." 
 
 How the cruel years speed onward 
 Heedless of the broken heart. 
 In their passing leaving anguish. 
 Tearing loving ones apart. 
 Tho' they may have torn her from me 
 Yet her calling I can hear, 
 And some happy day I '11 answer, — 
 "I am coming to you, dear." 
 
THE RAIN. 
 
 I can hear the patter, patter, 
 
 Of the rain, against the pane, 
 I can hear the patter, patter of the rain, 
 And I listen, listen, listen 
 As I see it glisten, glisten. 
 
 In the moonlight, on my chamber window-pane. 
 And I hear it gently sighing 
 As of someone softly crying 
 And I listen to its sad and sweet refrain. 
 To its cooling, sad and soothing, sweet refrain. 
 
 It is like a soul imprisoned in a dark and dingy dungeon. 
 
 That is longing, hoping, yearning 
 
 To be free to roam again, 
 
 And my soul within me burning 
 
 For its mate is yearning, yearning. 
 
 As it tugs and battles fiercely at its binding mortal chain. 
 
 Now no more the rain is falling, 
 
 And no more the voice is calling. 
 
 And my soul no more is burning with its fever and its pain. 
 
 For it now has found its solace 
 
 In the cooling, sad and soothing. 
 
 In the sad and soothing message of the rain. 
 
EN PASSANT. 
 
 I saw a face, I stopped, entranced, 
 And all my loneliness forgot. 
 
 She, too, had seen, had turned and glanced, 
 Our eyes responded, then she passed. 
 
 But in that moment all too brief. 
 
 My yearning heart had found relief. 
 My soul had met its own at last. 
 
 The years have flown, the fight is won, 
 Our happiness no rupture knew. 
 
 The long enchantment, now nigh done, 
 Must shortly cease and end in sleep. 
 
 But in that land, so pure and sweet. 
 
 Our reunited souls shall meet. 
 
 And love eternal watch will keep. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 "Good-night," and the little ones trot off to bed, 
 
 When their nighties are on and their prayers have been said, 
 
 With their mother to lead them on up the stair 
 
 And watch o'er their slumbers with deep tender care, 
 
 E'er she leaves them alone to the Father above. 
 
 In the wonderful peace of His infinite love. 
 
 "Good-night," and I feel the soft fall of a kiss 
 And I know that unspeakable moment of bliss. 
 When the heart, of its loving, fills up and o'erflows 
 With the deep holy love, that a parent heart knows, 
 And contented and happy as mortal could be 
 I thank the Great God for His mercy to me. 
 
 Alone, and the fire on the hearth has burned low, 
 
 And its flickering shadows like weird phantoms go. 
 
 When the thought comes to me, that when life shall be o 'er, 
 
 And its joys or its sorrows I'll know, nevermore. 
 
 That when the last glimpse of the world fades from sight, 
 
 'Tis to slumber I '11 go, and it 's only ' ' Good-night. ' ' 
 

 1991 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 988 852 6