Poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox Poems

  • 351.  
    The Wife
    The house is like a garden, The children are the flowers,
  • 352.  
    'What's in a glass of wine?'
    There, set the glass where I can look within.Now listen to me, friend, while I begin
  • 353.  
    There was a time when I was confident
    That God's stupendous mystery of birthWas mine to know. The wonder of it lent
  • 354.  
    When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
    We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago. And etched on vacant places,
  • 355.  
    Now what were the words of Jesus,
    And what would He pause and say,If we were to meet in home or street,
  • 356.  
    When shall I hear the thrushes sing,
    And see their graceful, round throats swelling? When shall I watch the bluebirds bring
  • 357.  
    Changed? Yes, I will confess it â?? I have changed.
    I do not love you in the old fond way.I am your friend still â?? time has not estranged
  • 358.  
    Never since the race was started,
    Had a boy in any clime,Cause to be so thankful-hearted,
  • 359.  
    Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder -
    I check myself, and say, 'That mighty OneWho made the solar system cannot blunder -
  • 360.  
    When first I looked upon the face of Pain
    I shrank repelled, as one shrinks from a foeWho stands with dagger poised, as for a blow.
  • 361.  
    Came a bouquet from the city,
    Fragrant, rich and debonair -Sweet carnation and geraniium,
  • 362.  
    In the warm yellow smile of the morning,
    She stands at the lattice pane, And watches the strong young binders
  • 363.  
    The devil to Bacchus said, one day,
    In a scowling, growling, petulant way,As he came from earth to hell:
  • 364.  
    All love that has not friendship for its base,
    Is like a mansion built upon the sand.Though brave its walls as any in the land,
  • 365.  
    The first flower of the spring is not so fair
    Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings. The first faint note the forest warbler sings
  • 366.  
    Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics!
    I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me.It is time you found out that all men are not stoics,
  • 367.  
    False! Good God, I am dreaming!
    No, no, it never can be-You who are so true in seeming,
  • 368.  
    We are younger in years! Yes, that is true;
    But in some things we are older than you.For instance, you sometimes say with a smile,
  • 369.  
    What are these nameless mysteries,
    These subtleties of life and death,That bring before our spirit eyes
  • 370.  
    Life is a privilege. Its youthful days
    Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays.To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire,
  • 371.  
    Soar not too high, O bird of Hope!
    Because the skies are fair; The tempest may come on apace
  • 372.  
    The impulse of all love is to create.
    God was so full of love, in his embraceHe clasped the empty nothingness of space,
  • 373.  
    Wherever my feet may wander
    Wherever I chance to be, There comes, with the coming of even' time
  • 374.  
    All perfect things are saddening in effect.

  • 375.  
    So vast the tide of Love within me surging,
    It overflows like some stupendous sea, The confines of the Present and To-be;
  • 376.  
    I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast
    Was at its loudest; when there was no soundFrom dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,
  • 377.  
    In Vanity Fair, as we bow and smile,
    As we talk of the opera after the weather,As we chat of fashion and fad and style,
  • 378.  
    High oâ??er the clouds a Sunbeam shone,
    And far down under him, With a subtle grace that was all her own,
  • 379.  
    Sometimes when I have dropped asleep,
    Draped in soft luxurious gloom, Across my drowsy mind will creep
  • 380.  
    I told you the winter would go, love,
    I told you the winter would go, That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
  • 381.  
    Are you loving enough? There is some one dear,
    Some one you hold as the dearest of all In the holiest shrine of your heart.
  • 382.  
    Ah yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
    Just as a weaker woman loves her own, Better than I love my beloved art,
  • 383.  
    A mother kneels by the cradle,
    Where her little infant lies,And she sees the ghastly shadows
  • 384.  
    Hollow a grave where the willows wave,
    And lay him under the grasses,Where the pitying breeze bloweth up from the seas,
  • 385.  
    Oh hush, little baby, thy papa's at sea;
    The big billows rock him as mamma rocks thee.He hastes to his dear ones o'er billows of foam;
  • 386.  
    I wandered o'er the vast green plains of youth,
    And searched for Pleasure. On a distant heightFame's silhouette stood sharp against the skies.
  • 387.  
    A maiden sat in teh sunset glow
    Of the shadowy, beautiful Long Ago, That we see through a mist of tears.
  • 388.  
    However skilled and strong art thou, my foe,
    However fierce is thy relentless hateThough firm thy hand, and strong thy aim, and straight
  • 389.  
    In India's land one listens aghast
    To the people who scream and bawl;For each caste yells at a lower caste,
  • 390.  
    They drift down the hall together;
    He smiles in her lifted eyes.Like waves of that mighty river
  • 391.  
    The four winds of earth, the North, South, East, and West,
    Shrieked and groaned, sobbed and wailed, like the soul of unrest.I stood in the dusk of the twilight alone,
  • 392.  
    Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres,
    And, like a blessing or a curse, They thunder down the formless years,
  • 393.  
    I was smoking a cigarette;
    Maud, my wife, and the tenor McKeyWere singing together a blithe duet,
  • 394.  
    Let me to-day do something that shall take
    A little sadness from the worldâ??s vast store, And may I be so favoured as to make
  • 395.  
    These agent men! these agent men!
    We hear the dreaded step again,We see a stranger at the door;
  • 396.  
    A giddy young maiden with nimble feet,
    Heigh-ho! alack and alas!Declared she would far rather dance than eat,
  • 397.  
    Last summer, lazing by the sea,
    I met a most entrancing creature, Her black eyes quite bewildered me---
  • 398.  
    Whatever is a cruel wrong,
    Whatever is unjust, The honest years that speed along
  • 399.  
    Whatever the strength of our foes is now,
    Whatever it may have been,This is our slogan, and this our vow-
  • 400.  
    Like some school master, kind in being stern,
    Who hears the children crying oâ??er their slatesAnd calling, â??Help me master! â? yet helps not,
Total 702 poems written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Poem of the day

 by James Macpherson

After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuà¤rfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuà¤rfed, being hard pressed in war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vain the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage,) Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers his daughter, Oina-morul, to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings.

As flies the inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy hill so pass the tales of old along my soul by night! When bards are removed to their place, when harps are hung in Selma's hall, then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it is like the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp! Light of the shadowy thoughts that fly across my soul, daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuà¤rfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid Mal-orchol, king of Fuà¤rfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast.

In Col-coiled I bound my sails. I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and seized my hand in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought. I denied the maid, for our fathers had been foes. He came with battle to Fuà¤rfed; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?"


Read complete poem

Popular Poets