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The Romantic Part of My Life. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. F. WOODCOX, 
 
 AUTHOK OF 
 
 "BEYOND THE STORE LIGHT 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS." 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOK. 
 
 MIIiLEKSBURG INDIANA. 
 
THE LIBhAuY of 
 
 CONGRESS, 
 T^MCi Cripi^* Rroeived 
 
 OCT "dd mm 
 
 Is Cf ^ 8- / 
 COPY B, 
 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by Benjamin Franlilin Woodcox. 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
The Romantic Part of Mv Life. 
 
 My Dear Ocie: bid not my pen to cease, nor despise 
 
 The art, so prone to music, that in my nature lies. 
 
 Scoff not at the ambition that gushes from my soul, 
 
 Nor hate me because of the passion existing beyond control. 
 
 God has given me a heart, and a tender feeling, alive. 
 Together with an ambition, a power to do and to strive. 
 He has planted within my breast a rare specie of the flower 
 That thou shouldst love, for it is Creative Power. 
 
 Think not that I, so prone to wander o'er ambitions stony path, 
 And seek t( ■ join the Creative Angel, as a member of his staff 7 
 Should forget the lovely maiden, or learn to despise the name 
 That has cliarmed my soul to music, and set my heart aflame. 
 
 Listen to my words and believe them, for it is good, 
 For I liave been mistaken, and oft times misunderstood; 
 And the kindness that along thy path would liave been shown 
 Is per];a|)s sealed to silence, and never to be kn<nvr.. 
 
2 THE ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 I come at this distant hour and a message to you I bring, 
 And with words charmed by beauty let me this message sing; 
 Sing it with a meter and a rhyme that to music is sad; 
 But with words that are kind and a humor that is glad. 
 
 I know not your feelings. You too are misunderstood. 
 I know only that you are pretty and that you are good. 
 
 I know that in your heart you have a longing to be 
 As pure as an angel, as good, and as free. 
 
 I know (hat sorrow has oft entered thy heart, 
 
 Has been there, has dwelt there, has pierced thy soul like a dart, 
 
 I know, oh! I know, how unhappy, how sad this life. 
 
 I'm acquainted with its sorrows, its struggles and its strife. 
 
 Ocie! we are both imperfect, and we are both inclined 
 To be stubborn, to be proud, and to treat each other unkind- 
 We suffer from each others words, and each others acts. 
 Believe me or not, I state but the facts. 
 
 Then let war cease, and the cruel sword be broken. 
 And accept this message from my hand as a token 
 Of peace from a soul that recognizes no fault below 
 The standard to which it is proud to go. 
 
THE ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Fair Ocie, your actions tell me what your lips dare not speak. 
 Chose you this silent messenger, the news to me to break? 
 I have loved and lost. Is this the message your action brings? 
 As though by its coldness and silence it could destroy the stings 
 Of disappointment, which must tear from my heart's core. 
 The love of woman, which shall be known by me — 
 
 alas! no moie. 
 
THE KOMANTIC PABT OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Ocie, n© truer soul to earth is giveo; 
 
 No nobler being can man conceive, 
 
 Than he whom from you, you have driven, 
 
 And whose pleadings you will not believe. 
 
 Though h© has sworn eternally to remwn 
 True to th© love your scoff has slain. 
 
THE ROMAXTTC PART OF MY LIEE. 
 
 Fair Ocie, we'll meet as lovers, no more, no more. 
 
 Ah, 't wonld have been better to have trusted. 
 
 Yea, 'twould have been better to have yielded. 
 
 For a holy passion that has rusted 
 
 Because it is imprisoned, is denied, is not heeded, 
 
 Soon dies and its death 
 
 Leaves to the lovers nothing left. 
 
 We'll meet as lovers no more, no more. 
 
 It would have been better to have forgiven. 
 
 And thought of the past no more, 
 
 And in the futuj-e to have striven 
 
 To live more righteous than before; 
 
 But since you have decided, 
 
 The wrong can not be righted. 
 
 We'll meet as lovers no more, no more. 
 
THB ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Ocie, our paths are parting like ships at tea, 
 
 Each borne by the tempest to some destiny. 
 
 May the sea be calm; may the port be sure; 
 
 May each one learn to love and endure; 
 
 Tho' seperate our paths; tho' our port not the same; 
 
 Neither is guilty nor neithei- is to blame. 
 
THE ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Ocie, I bid you then farewell, 
 If you would have me go. 
 1 would longer tarry — 
 But no you bid me go — I go. 
 Borne down with grief and sorrow, 
 With regrets and ceaseless pain, 
 I look with sadness to the morrow, 
 And think of the love I have slain — 
 You have bidden me go — I go. 
 Down through the valley of anguish, 
 Heeding neither friend nor foe, 
 I do not iry to distinguish — 
 You have bidden me go — I go. 
 With out one word of censure, 
 Without one rebuke, I go. 
 Down into the valley I venture, 
 Borne hither by my woe — 
 You have bidden me go — I go. 
 With my love for ever destroyed; 
 With my self my greatest foe; 
 
THE ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 And with my future hopes void — 
 You have bidden me go — I go. 
 With aching head and breaking heart; 
 With pride for once oast low; 
 Regretfully on the road I start — 
 You have bidden me go — I go. 
 
THE ROMAISTTIO PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Fair Ocie! why come at this remote day, 
 And mildly bid me stay? Nay. 
 Health is ruined; hope destroyed; 
 My soul borne down with woe; 
 All love for thee has long been void. 
 No. No. Let me go. Let me go. 
 Why come at this distant day, 
 And pleadingly bid me stay? Nay. 
 Once I before you humbly knelt, 
 And pleaded for love — so justly due — 
 My words in your hard heart were not felt, 
 For with scorn my love you slew, 
 And bid me go. I went. 
 Why, after darkness has hid my day, 
 Come and pleadingly bid rae stay? Nay. 
 Yet from the depth of my broken heart. 
 No words of reproach shall be spoken, 
 Nor from my eyes no tear shall start, 
 To ))ear to you a lovers token. 
 You bid' me go. I went. 
 
10 THE ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Ocie, I live, I die, your slave. 
 
 Plant a rose bud upon my grave. 
 
 .A rose bud in the seed. 
 
 Pink, white, or yellow, 
 
 I shall not heed. 
 
 It is the token for which I plead. 
 
 Plant a rose bud and kneeling low, 
 Kiss the spot where it shall c^row. 
 
Part two. 
 
THF, ROMANTIC PAKT OF MY LIFE. 13 
 
 The moon is sinking in the west, 
 
 The ni^ht has gone to sleep. 
 
 Tlie Sun's rays are entering my breast, 
 
 And its light my features doth sweep. 
 
 I am no longer weary, 
 
 No longer do I long for rest. 
 
 The night that has been so dreary 
 
 Is past, and the sun's rays are entering my breast. 
 
 Long has been the night, 
 
 And slow the light, 
 
 But day has dawned at last, 
 
 And the sun shineth within my breast. 
 
 Its rays are fair. Its light is sweet. 
 
 It brings hopes of victory, not defeat. 
 
 Beauty and grace are in its sphere, 
 And a heart that is to me most dear. 
 
14 thp: bomantic paiit of my life. 
 
 Oh! tlie sun is shining, is shining bright, 
 
 For all the past has taken flight. 
 
 Ah, this is not the sun that once did shine. 
 
 The old sun's light did decline, 
 
 It could not stand the test of time. 
 
 But this one comes from a more heavenly sphere. 
 
 Its rays are all ready shining here. 
 
 Though it has not climbed far in the eastern sky. 
 
 For the night has not long past by. 
 
 Its light grows brighter as the hours pass. 
 
 It warms my heart and fills my glass 
 
 With the wine of hope, which never was mine. 
 
 While the old sun did in my breast shine. 
 
 Oh! this sun is more divine; 
 
 More beautiful, more graceful, more like the light. 
 
 That me thinks must shine through the heavens bright. 
 
THE TtOMA^'TIO PART OF MY LIFE. 15 
 
 To Eva. 
 
 To thee, sweet child of beauty, 
 
 Nature's grace has been wedded fast, 
 
 And it now^ becomes your duty 
 
 To make this union last. 
 
 No charm, no grace, no virtue, 
 
 But you sweet child possess. 
 
 I, linger — but alas! adieu, 
 
 The truth I '11 not confess. 
 
 'T is a poet's duty to thrill 
 With music, such souls as thine. 
 
 If he one moment is still. 
 The M^orld will cry, "iV crime." 
 
 Could I but pause to behold 
 
 Your virtue, your beauty, end grace; 
 
 I might the truth unfold. 
 
 I 'm a slave to one sweet face. 
 
 But no. 'T is a poet's doom. 
 Throughout this life to remain, 
 
 Closed in a solitary tomb — 
 His books, his study, his fame. 
 
1(5 THE ROMANTIC pART OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Eva, that drtiaoi I dreamt — ^ali, so late last night — 
 Of a life that was in love so bright, 
 
 Of an arm that roaiiJ my waist will ne'er entwine, 
 Of a heart that never shall he mine. 
 
 That dream I dreamt — ^ah, if it was true — 
 
 If in love I ever should be loved by you, 
 
 What thought is there, what idea more sublime, 
 
 Than the all absorbing thought of being thine. 
 
THE ROMANTIC PART OF MT LIFK. l7 
 
 To Eva. 
 
 I am thinking tonight of thee, 
 
 Who bears so much of nature's beauty. 
 
 I am thinking of thee. 
 
 Wondering, doubting, dreaming, thinking, 
 Seeing, viewing, tasting, drinking, 
 Of thy graces, charms and beauty. 
 Of thy goodness, not steeped in duty. 
 
 1 am thinking tonight of thee. 
 
 Who bears so much of nature's })eauty. 
 
 I am thinking' of thee. 
 
18 THE KOM ANTIC TART OF MY LTFK. 
 
 To Eva. 
 
 Mysterious sileoce surrounds the poet and his lyre, 
 And all the power, all the beauty, all the hypnotic fire. 
 That is known to man, in which woman has a part. 
 Is sealed to silence within the chamber of his heart. 
 
 Within its silent chamber, a lonely spirit doth dwell. 
 And with a feeling akin to sadness, it bids to one farewell. 
 A nameless longing fills its brea-*t, a sigh escapes its lips, 
 And iuto hopeless melancholy, this lonely spirit slips. 
 
 In silence it sits beside its dead — an opportunity lost — 
 
 And weepingly it murmers, oh! uh! the cost! the cost! 
 Jt is Imt a moments anguish, an<l a struggle forever to last, 
 An<l the battle of love is ended, and the die of liberty is cast. 
 
THE ROMANTIC PART OF MY LIFE 19 
 
 How sweet was that dream. 
 
 While all the world was chiding, 
 
 My soul rested on life's stream, 
 
 My heart through heaven was gliding. 
 
 Oh, sweet dream of love! 
 
 Sweet dream, too sweet to last, 
 
 Of love that rivaled heaven's beauty. 
 
 Alas! for my soul, it has past. 
 
 I see but the path of duty. 
 
 Oh, sweet dream of love! 
 
Appended. 
 
A I.YIIK li-;ttf.i{. 
 
 A Lyric Letter, 
 
 Those ou the outlook for a new form in letter writing would do well 
 to study the mechanical make-up of the following. 
 
 Friend Clara, it is of your mother 1 would write, 
 
 For she is the one that snubbed me at Endeavor last night. 
 
 I am inclined to believe that she must have heard 
 
 Something that 1 might have said, though I said not a word. 
 
 No matter, I will not on the unpleasant part dwell 
 
 But proceed at once my pathetic story to tell. 
 
 She turned her head — as much as to say — 
 
 Mr. Woodcox, I bid you good day. 
 
 And though I very kindly offered her a question, 
 
 Her action was enough — a suggestion — 
 
 That I held in her thoughts no place. 
 
 Without it was one of common disgrace. 
 
 The wound I felt; but smiling sweet, 
 
 I calmly turiied and beat a retreat, 
 
 And glanced ovei" the audience to see, 
 
 How many persons were looking at me. 
 
 Finding a seat I politely sat down, 
 
 And added to my sweet smile, a gentle frown. 
 
94 
 
 A LYRIC LETTER 
 
 But not in hatred was that frown gi\^en. 
 
 It was the inward pain to my features driven. 
 
 Within my soul no ill feeling e''er dwelled. 
 
 Against your mother I have never. held 
 
 One unkind thought. Yet there is M^ounded pride 
 
 For my attention to your sister has been denied. 
 
 Been denied, by your mother's parental law. 
 
 In whicli 1 believe there is a flaw. 
 
 For in your sister's actions, I was sure I I'ead 
 
 Of a feeling that could not be dead, 
 
 Though mother and lover on a theory disagreed. 
 
 And tlie sister her self <lesii'ed to be freed. 
 
 Perhaps I have from your mother shrank away, 
 
 Since I had my pride wounded that day, 
 
 I returned from school with a light heart, 
 
 Into which disappointment was to pierce like a dart; 
 
 And yet I do not at this moment know why 
 
 My attention to your sister your mothei' did deiiy. 
 
 I was wounded to think that I, cultured, and refined, 
 
 A promisiag youth; possessing great power of mind. 
 
 An artist by profession, a writer of books; 
 
 Owning some property, and possessing fail* looks, 
 
 Shoul'l receive from your mothei' naught but a frown, 
 
 Ahd MS a, s iitor to her daui>:hter be cruidlv tui'ned down. 
 
HISTORY. 25 
 
 History. 
 
 She flew across my world, 
 
 Like a meteor across the sky, 
 
 With my love around her furled. 
 
 I said it would never die; 
 But it did. 
 
 I saw no beauty save in her eye; 
 Observed no goodness except in her life; 
 
 I beheld her as an angel in the sky; 
 
 The one I would have chosen for a wife. 
 
 But love died. 
 
 Some wretched human blotted out 
 
 The image painted on my eye. 
 
 I turned and looked, and then about, 
 
 I saw no angel ia the sky. 
 
 Love was dead. 
 
26 MY WIPE. 
 
 My Wife. 
 
 Who is that sitting in my study- chair! 
 
 Wiiat a lovely form ! 
 
 How fair! 
 
 This must be an angel sitting in my study-chair. 
 
 Yes, an angel is sitting in my study-chair. 
 
 What beautiful eyes, 
 
 And hair! 
 
 Ha.s this angel sitting there, in my study-chair. 
 
 How fair! How surprisingly fair! Is this angel sitting there, 
 
 Gracefully resting 
 
 In my study- chair. 
 
 No wonder that I stand, and look, and stare. 
 
 Yes, an angel is sittiag in my study-chair. 
 
 She is beautiful 
 
 She is fair. 
 
 It is my wife that's sitting, resting, in my stud)'' -chair. 
 
THE MESSETiTGER AXGEL. 27 
 
 The Messenger Angel. 
 
 The angel was a message beaier, 
 
 And with a message did come. ~ 
 
 On the twenty sixth day of April there 
 
 Should die in the year nineteen one, 
 
 At the hour of half-past ten, 
 
 In the dark part of the night, 
 
 A 3 outh who is and has been 
 
 The author of, "Beyond the Store Light." 
 
 On the twenty-sixth day of January, 
 
 At the hour of half-past ten. 
 
 An angel from Heaven's sanctuary 
 
 Visited a poet's den. 
 
 It was in the year nineteen one. 
 
 In the dark hours of the night. 
 
 That this messenger angel come, 
 
 Robed in spotless white. 
 
 The poet lay sleeping so sweetly, 
 
 As the angel entered the room, 
 
 That the angel smiling said meekly: 
 
 "A gifted flower here doth bloom " 
 
28 THE MESSENGER ANGEL. 
 
 "Lo and behold this gifted flower. 
 
 Three months from this hour and night, 
 
 It will lose all its earth given powei-, 
 
 And be robed in a garment of white." 
 
 The angel stooped and kissed him, 
 
 And parsed through the darkness away. 
 
 I saw — but my sight was dim — 
 
 These things I've recorded to day. 
 
The Messenger Aii^el. 
 
 Perhaps some may believe that the angel did not tell the 
 truth about the author of ''Beyond the Store Light'' dying 
 in 1891 Rut we mean to offer irrefragable proof of it, by 
 publishing the "Jonrnal of the Late B. F. Woodcox." It 
 is a work in prose and poetry, and is thought by some to be 
 the author's best work. "Lhe plan and time of publication 
 has not yet been decided upon. If you think you would like 
 a copy, send your name and addj-ess to the author, and you 
 will be informed as to price and time of publication. 
 
 Ff'r the author's address. Fee the title page of this booklet. 
 
Beyond the Store Light 
 and Other Poems. 
 
 BY 
 
 B. F. WOODCOX. 
 
 12 MO. Cloth 40 cts. Paper cover 25 cts. Postpaid. 
 
 MILLERSBUKG, IND. 
 
 pD 
 
 1.11 
 

 
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