Outcast

Perchance for dear Life's sake - and life is sweet -
When work had failed and roads were deep in snow,
And this meant food and fire, she fell so low -
That painted creature of the midnight street.
Perchance that other, with the shoeless feet,
Was Nature's victim, too untaught to know
That all live buds are not allowed to blow -
Too starved and passion-blind to be discreet.

And their accuser? She within the fold
That walks in light, bejewelled and belaced,
Who in cold blood, and not for love or need,
Sold the white flower of womanhood for gold;
The wedded harlot, rich and undisgraced,
The viler prostitute in mind and deed.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Possibilities

There are who fear the loosing of the knot
That ties our labouring brother to the oar.
Release him, say they, and he will not soar;
Full- fed and idle, he will fall and rot.
Give him his share — let sharp need scourge him not —
Let cruel spur of hunger prick no more,
But all have bounty of the rich world's store —
And wreck and ruin is our certain lot!

But ease the toil- worn arm, the anxious brain,
And Reason, set more firmly on her throne,
Should guide more truly the enfranchised will.
Though want depart, divine desires remain;
Man, born of God, lives not by bread alone,
And realms of Knowledge are to conquer still.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Physical Conscience

The moral conscience — court of last appeal —
Our word of God — our Heaven- sent light and guide —
From what high aims it lures our steps aside!
To what immoral deeds it sets its seal!
That beacon lamp has lost its sacred fire;
That pilot- guide, compelling wind and wave,
By slow, blind process, has become the slave
Of all- compelling custom and desire.

Not so the conscience of the body. This,
Untamed and true, still speaks in voice and face,
In cold lips stiffened to the loveless kiss,
In shamed limbs shrinking from unloved embrace,
In love- born passion, that no laws compel,
Nor gold can purchase, nor ambition sell.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Fallen

For want of bread to eat and clothes to wear —
Because work failed and streets were deep in snow,
And this meant food and fire — she fell so low,
Sinning for dear life's sake, in sheer despair.
Or, because life was else so bald and bare,
The natural woman in her craved to know
The warmth of passion — as pale buds to blow
And feel the noonday sun and fertile air.

And who condemns? She who, for vulgar gain
And in cold blood, and not for love or need,
Has sold her body to more vile disgrace —
The prosperous matron, with her comely face —
Wife by the law, but prostitute in deed,
In whose gross wedlock womanhood is slain.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Seeking

Bright eyes, sweet lips, with sudden fevers fill
My strong blood, running wildly, as it must;
But lips and eyes too soon beget distrust.
A soft touch sends a momentary thrill
Through sense unsubservient to the will;
But warm caresses leave a dim disgust;
Like Dead- Sea apples, kisses turn to dust.
I kiss; I feast; but I am hungry still.

O, where is She — that straight and upright soul —
True friend, true mate, true woman — where is She?
True heart — as true as needle to the pole —
True to the truth, not only true to me —
Worth all I have to give — the best — the whole.
When shall these eyes Her unknown beauty see?

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Unstrung

My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!

By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.

Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.

But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Hands that Hang Down

O lord, I am so tired!
My heart is sick and sore.
I work, and work, and do no good—
And I can try no more!

I lay my treasures up,
And think they're worth such care;
And the next time I go to look,
There's only rubbish there!

I tug hard at the door
Of knowledge—strain and pant;
But, Lord, the more I seem to learn,
The more I'm ignorant!

Sometimes I am so vain
I set myself to teach;
But e'en the first beginnings lie
Utterly out of reach!

[...] Read more

poem by Ada Cambridge
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A Sigh in the Night

O sweet darkness, still, and calm, and lonely!
Spread thy downy pinions round about.
Spare me from thy hidden riches only
One dream-face; blot all the others out.

Bring him now, for thou hast power to free him,
From that ugly garb he wears by day;
Bring him now—my darling!—let me see him
Ere the tender kindness pass away.

O sweet night-winds, wandering in the larches!
Sigh, and croon, and whisper as you creep;
Sing my songs through green cathedral arches,
While the weary workers are asleep.

Snarl and fret not of the grief and passion;
Sing in minor cadence, sweet and low;
Sing of peace and rest, in soft wind-fashion—
Of the love and faith I used to know!

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Faith

And is the great cause lost beyond recall?
   Have all the hopes of ages come to naught?
   Is life no more with noble meaning fraught?
Is life but death, and love its funeral pall?
Maybe. And still on bended knees I fall,
   Filled with a faith no preacher ever taught.
   O God -- MY God -- by no false prophet wrought --
I believe still, in despite of it all!

Let go the myths and creeds of groping men.
   This clay knows naught -- the Potter understands.
I own that Power divine beyond my ken,
   And still can leave me in His shaping hands.
But, O my God, that madest me to feel,
Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel!

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Despair

Alone! Alone! No beacon, far or near!
   No chart, no compass, and no anchor stay!
   Like melting fog the mirage melts away
In all-surrounding darkness, void and clear.
Drifting, I spread vain hands, and vainly peer
   And vainly call for pilot, -- weep and pray;
   Beyond these limits not the faintest ray
Shows distant coast whereto the lost may steer.

O what is life, if we must hold it thus
   As wind-blown sparks hold momentary fire?
   What are these gifts without the larger boon?
O what is art, or wealth, or fame to us
   Who scarce have time to know what we desire?
   O what is love, if we must part so soon?

poem by Ada Cambridge
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