Ella Wheeler Wilcox was born on Nov 1850 in Wisconsin, US. Her poems reflect her positive thoughts and encouraging side. You can get an idea of his positive thoughts by reading her poem “Solitude”. Her poetry gave a very positive impression to people. She passed away in October 1919, but her poetry still touches people’s hearts.
Table of Contents
Solitude
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone,
For sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air,
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure.
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all —
There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
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It Might Have Been
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
We will be what we could be. Do not say,
“It might have been, had not or that, or this”
No fate can keep us from the chosen way;
He only might who is.
We will do what we could do. Do not dream
Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.
I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;
He does who could achieve.
We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not
Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.
What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?
He always climbs who might.
I do not like the phrase, “It might have been!”
It lacks all force, and life’s best truths perverts:
For I believe we have, and reach, and win,
Whatever our deserts.
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Uselessness
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Let mine not be the saddest fate of all,
To live beyond my greater self; to see
My faculties decaying, as the tree
Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall
Let me hear rather the imperious call,
Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,
And follow death ere I have reached my prime,
Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life’s gall.
The lightning’s stroke or the fierce tempest blast
Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
Unhappy witness of its own decay.
May no man ever look on me and say,
“She lives, but all her usefulness is past.”
========
Does It Pay
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
If one poor burdened toiler o’er life’s road,
Who meets us by the way,
Goes on less conscious of his galling load,
Then life, indeed, does pay.
If we can show one troubled heart the gain
That lies alway in loss,
Why, then, we too are paid for all the pain
Of bearing life’s hard cross.
If some despondent soul to hope is stirred,
Some sad lip made to smile,
By any act of ours, or any word,
Then, life has been worth while.
========
Optimism
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I’m no reformer; for I see more light
Than darkness in the world; mine eyes are quick
To catch the first dim radiance of the dawn,
And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm.
The fragrance and the beauty of the rose
Delight me so, slight thought I give its thorn;
And the sweet music of the lark’s clear song
Stays longer with me than the night hawk’s cry.
And e’en in this great throe of pain called Life,
I find a rapture linked with each despair,
Well worth the price of Anguish. I detect
More good than evil in humanity.
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old.
========
Distrust
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Distrust that man who tells you to distrust;
He takes the measure of his own small soul,
And thinks the world no larger. He who prates
Of human nature’s baseness and deceit
Looks in the mirror of his heart, and sees
His kind therein reflected. Or perchance
The honeyed wine of life was turned to gall
By sorrow’s hand, which brimmed his cup with tears,
And made all things seem bitter to his taste.
Give him compassion! But be not afraid
Of nectared Love, or Friendship’s strengthening draught,
Nor think a poison underlies their sweets.
Look through true eyes – you will discover truth;
Suspect suspicion, and doubt only doubt.
========
The Lost Land
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
There is a story of a beauteous land,
Where fields were fertile and where flowers were bright;
Where tall towers glistened in the morning light,
Where happy children wandered hand in hand,
Where lovers wrote their names upon the sand.
They say it vanished from all human sight,
The hungry sea devoured it in a night.
You doubt the tale? ah, you will understand;
For, as men muse upon that fable old,
They give sad credence always at the last,
However they have cavilled at its truth,
When with a tear-dimmed vision they behold,
Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past,
The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth.
========
A Face
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Between the curtains of snowy lace,
Over the way is a baby’s face;
It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee,
And waves its pink little hand at me.
My heart responds with a lonely cry –
But in the wonderful By-and-By –
Out from the window of God’s “To Be,”
That other baby shall beckon to me.
That ever-haunting and longed-for face,
That perfect vision of infant grace,
Shall shine on me in a splendour of light,
Never to fade from my eager sight.
All that was taken shall be made good;
All that puzzles me understood;
And the wee white hand that I lost, one day,
Shall lead me into the Better Way.
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Secrets
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone.
Why, even God’s stupendous secret, Death,
We one by one, with our expiring breath,
Do, pale with wonder, seize and make our own;
The bosomed treasures of the Earth are shown,
Despite her careful hiding; and the air
Yields its mysterious marvels in despair
To swell the mighty storehouse of things known.
In vain the sea expostulates and raves;
It cannot cover from the keen world’s sight
The curious wonders of its coral caves.
And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,
The prying fingers of detective years
Shall drag thy secret out into the light.
========
The Instructor
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Not till we meet with Love in all his beauty,
In all his solemn majesty and worth,
Can we translate the meaning of life’s duty,
Which God oft writes in cipher at our birth.
Not till Love comes in all his strength and terror
Can we read others’ hearts; not till then know
A wide compassion for all human error,
Or sound the quivering depths of mortal woe.
Not till we sail with him o’er stormy oceans,
Have we seen tempests; hidden in his hand
He holds the keys to all the great emotions;
Till he unlocks them, none can understand.
Not till we walk with him on lofty mountains
Can we quite measure heights. And, O sad truth!
When once we drink from his immortal fountains,
We bid farewell to the light heart of youth.
Thereafter our most perfect day will borrow
A dimming shadow from some dreaded night;
So great grows joy it merges into sorrow,
And evermore pain tinctures our delight.
========
A Grey Mood
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
As we hurry away to the end, my friend,
Of this sad little farce called existence,
We are sure that the future will bring one thing,
And that is the grave in the distance.
And so when our lives run along all wrong,
And nothing seems real or certain,
We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not)
Of that spectre behind the curtain.
But we haven’t much time to repine or whine,
Or to wound or jostle each other;
And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,
If we mean to assist a brother.
And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth,
But the worry it brings is double;
And all that repays for the strife of life
Is helping some soul in trouble.
I tell you, if I could go back the track
To my life’s morning hour,
I would not set forth seeking name or fame,
Or that poor bauble called power.
I would be like the sunlight, and live to give;
I would lend, but I would not borrow;
Nor would I be blind and complain of pain,
Forgetting the meaning of sorrow.
This world is a vaporous jest at best,
Tossed off by the gods in laughter;
And a cruel attempt at wit were it,
If nothing better came after.
It is reeking with hearts that ache and break,
Which we ought to comfort and strengthen,
As we hurry away to the end, my friend,
And the shadows behind us lengthen.
========
You Can Never Tell
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
You can never tell when you send a word
Like an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
Just where it will chance to go.
It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend,
Tipped with its poison or balm;
To a stranger’s heart in life’s great mart
It may carry its pain or its calm.
You never can tell when you do an act
Just what the result will be,
But with every deed you are sowing a seed,
Though its harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
In God’s productive soil;
Though you may not know, yet the tree shall grow
And shelter the brows that toil.
You never can tell what your thoughts will do
In bringing you hate or love,
For thoughts are things, and their airy wings
Are swifter than carrier doves.
They follow the law of the universe—
Each thing must create its kind,
And they speed o’er the track to bring you back
Whatever went out from your mind.
========
Life Is Too Short For
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys, and sorrows, of each yesterday.
Between the swift sun’s rising and its setting,
We have no time for useless tears or fretting,
Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;
Time is the best avenger if we wait,
The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing,
We have no room for anything like hate.
This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing
That thick and fast about our feet are stealing,
Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavour, —
Too short for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on for ever and for ever,
It links the worlds that circle on above;
Tis God’s first law, the universe’s lever,
In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never
“Life is too short.”
========
Old And New
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,
Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine
Why should the old monopolise all praise?
Then let the new claim mine.
Give me strong new friends, when the old prove weak,
Or fail me in my darkest hour of need;
Why perish with the ship that springs a leak,
Or lean upon a reed?
Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet,
When all the grace and beauty leaves the old;
When like a rose it withers at my feet,
Or like a hearth grows cold.
Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer,
In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;
I hold a sunlit present far more dear,
And worthy of my praise.
When the old creeds are threadbare, and worn through,
And all too narrow for the broadening soul,
Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,
Fair, beautiful and whole.
========
New Year
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
As the old year sinks down in Time’s ocean,
Stand ready to launch with the new,
And waste no regrets, no emotion,
As the masts and the spars pass from view.
Weep not if some treasures go under,
And sink in the rotten ship’s hold,
That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder
May bring you more wealth than the old.
For the world is for ever improving,
All the past is not worth one to-day,
And whatever deserves our true loving,
Is stronger than death or decay.
Old love, was it wasted devotion?
Old friends, were they weak or untrue?
Well, let them sink there in mid-ocean,
And gaily sail on to the new.
Throw overboard toil misdirected,
Throw overboard ill-advised hope,
With aims which, your soul has detected,
Have self as their centre and scope.
Throw overboard useless regretting
For deeds which you cannot undo,
And learn the great art of forgetting
Old things which embitter the new.
Sing who will of dead years departed,
I shroud them and bid them adieu,
And the song that I sing, happy-hearted,
Is a song of the glorious new.
========
Answered Prayers
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I prayed for riches, and achieved success;
All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!
My cares were greater and my peace was less,
When that wish came to pass.
I prayed for glory, and I heard my name
Sung by sweet children and by hoary men.
But ah ! the hurts — the hurts that come with fame!
I was not happy then.
I prayed for Love, and had my heart’s desire.
Through quivering heart and body, and through brain
There swept the flame of its devouring fire,
And but the scars remain.
I prayed for a contented mind. At length
Great light upon my darkened spirit burst.
Great peace fell on me also, and great strength —
Oh, had that prayer been first I.
========
The Actor
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Oh, man, with your wonderful dower,
Oh, woman, with genius and grace,
You can teach the whole world with your power,
If you are but worthy the place.
The stage is a force and a factor
In moulding the thought of the day,
If only the heart of the actor
Is high as the theme of the play.
No discourse or sermon can reach us
Through feeling to reason like you;
No author can stir us and teach us
With lessons as subtle and true.
Your words and your gestures obeying,
We weep or rejoice with your part,
And the player, behind all his playing,
He ought to be great as his art.
No matter what role you are giving,
No matter what skill you betray,
The everyday life you are living,
Is certain to colour the play.
The thoughts we call secret and hidden
Are creatures of malice, in fact;
They steal forth unseen and unbidden,
And permeate motive and act.
The genius that shines like a comet
Fills only one part of God’s plan,
If the lesson the world derives from it
Is marred by the life of the man.
Be worthy your work if you love it;
The king should be fit for the crown;
Stand high as your art, or above it,
And make us look up and not down.
========
Show Me The Way
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Show me the way that leads to the true life.
I do not care what tempests may assail me,
I shall be given courage for the strife,
I know my strength will not desert or fail me;
I know that I shall conquer in the fray:
Show me the way.
Show me the way up to a higher plane,
Where body shall be servant to the soul.
I do not care what tides of woe, or pain,
Across my life their angry waves may roll
If I but reach the end I seek some day:
Show me the way.
Show me the way, and let me bravely climb
Above vain grievings for unworthy treasures;
Above all sorrow that finds balm in time —
Above small triumphs, or belittling pleasures;
Up to those heights where these things seem child’s play:
Show me the way.
Show me the way to that calm, perfect peace
Which springs from an inward consciousness of right;
To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease,
And self shall radiate with the spirit’s light.
Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray
Show me the way.
========
Impatience
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
How can I wait until you come to me?
The once fleet mornings linger by the way;
Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee
At my unrest, they seem to pause, and play
Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours
Refused to pause or loiter with me long;
But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer blooms, not heeding my one song
How can I wait?
How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;
They reach forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;
And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast upon your face, I no more sing,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? The morning breaks the spell
A pitying night has flung upon my soul.
You are not near me, and I know full well
My heart has need of patience and control;
Before we meet, hours, days, and weeks must roll,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? Oh, Love, how can I wait
Until the sunlight of your eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems so desolate?
Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;
Until you come again, oh, Love of mine,
How can I wait?
========
Whatever Is — Is Best
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Know as my life grows older
And mine eyes have clearer sight —
That under each rank wrong, somewhere
There lies the root of Right;
That each sorrow has its purpose,
By the sorrowing oft unguessed,
But as sure as the sun brings morning,
Whatever is — is best.
I know that each sinful action
As sure as the night brings shade,
Is somewhere, some time punished,
Tho’ the hour be long delayed.
I know that the soul is aided
Sometimes by the heart’s unrest,
And to grow means often to suffer —
But whatever is — is best.
I know there are no errors
In the great Eternal plan,
And all things work together
For the final good of man.
And I know when my soul speeds onward
In its grand Eternal quest,
I shall say as I look back earthward
Whatever is — is best.
========
Keep Out Of The Past
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Keep out of the Past! for its highways
Are damp with malarial gloom;
Its gardens are sere and its forests are drear,
And everywhere moulders a tomb.
Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures
Finds only a rose turned to dust;
And its storehouse of wonderful treasures
Are covered and coated with rust.
Keep out of the Past. It is haunted:
He who in its avenues gropes
Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most,
And a skeleton throng of dead hopes.
In place of its beautiful rivers,
Are pools that are stagnant with slime;
And these graves gleaming white in a phosphoric light,
Hide dreams that were slain in their prime.
Keep out of the Past It is lonely,
And barren and bleak to the view;
Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old —
Turn, turn to the Present — the New;
To-day leads you up to the hill-tops
That are kissed by the radiant sun,
To-day shows no tomb, life’s hopes are in bloom,
And to-day holds a prize to be won.
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What Love Is
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Love is the centre and circumference;
The cause and aim of all things — ’tis the key
To joy and sorrow, and the recompense
For all the ills that have been, or may be.
Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin,
As sweet as clover-honey in its cell;
Love is the password whereby souls get in
To Heaven — the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell.
Love is the crown that glorifies; the curse
That brands and burdens; it is life and death;
It is the great law of the universe;
And nothing can exist without its breath.
Love is the impulse which directs the world,
And all things know it and obey its power.
Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled;
The bee that takes the pollen to the flower;
The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast
To fervent kisses of the amorous sun; —
Each but obeys creative Love’s behest,
Which everywhere instinctively is done.
Love is the only thing that pays for birth,
Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God above,
This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,
Pity the hearts that know — or know not — Love!
========
Resolve
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
As the dead year is clasped by a dead December,
So let your dead sins with your dead days lie.
A new life is yours, and a new hope. Remember,
We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.
Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, forgetting
Whatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong.
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting;
We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.
Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining.
Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next.
Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining.
Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a text,
As each year hurries by let it join that procession
Of skeleton shapes that march down to the Past,
While you take your place in the line of Progression,
With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast.
I tell you the future can hold no terrors
For any sad soul while the stars revolve,
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,
And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve.
It is never too late to begin rebuilding,
Though all into ruins your life seems hurled,
For see how the light of the New Year is gilding
The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.
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Love’s Language
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye –
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh –
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barques, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn’s swift force –
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek –
The sudden silence and reserve when near –
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear –
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its god-like guest –
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek –
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendour,
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one beloved face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble –
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss –
Thus doth Love speak.
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In Faith
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
When the soft sweet wind o’ the south went by,
I dwelt in the light of a dark brown eye;
And out where the robin sang his song,
We lived and loved, while the days were long.
In the sweet, sweet eves, when the moon swung high,
We wandered under the starry sky;
Or sat in the porch, and the moon looked through
The latticed wall, where the roses grew.
My lips, that had known no lover’s kiss,
You taught the art, till they thrilled in bliss;
And the moon, and the stars, and the roses knew
That the heart you won was pure and true.
But true hearts weary men, maybe,
For you grew weary of love, and me.
Over the porch the dead vines hang,
And a mourning dove sobs where the robin sang.
In a warmer clime does another sigh
Under the light of your dark brown eye?
Did you follow the soft sweet wind o’ the south,
And are you kissing a redder mouth?
Lips may be redder, and eyes more bright;
The face may be fairer you see to-night;
But never, love, while the stars shall shine,
Will you find a heart that is truer than mine.
Sometime, perhaps, when south winds blow,
You will think of a love you used to know;
Sometime, perhaps, when a robin sings,
Your heart will go back to olden things.
Sometime you will weary of this world’s arts,
Of deceit and change and hollow hearts,
And, wearying, sigh for the “used to be,”
And your feet will turn to the porch, and me.
I shall watch for you here when days grow long;
I shall list for your step through the robin’s song;
I shall sit in the porch where the moon looks through,
And a vacant chair will wait – for you.
You may stray, and forget, and rove afar,
But my changeless love, like the polar star,
Will draw you at length o’er land and sea –
And I know you will yet come back to me.
The years may come, and the years may go,
But sometime again, when south winds blow,
When roses bloom, and the moon swings high,
I shall live in the light of your dark brown eye.
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The Way Of It
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
This is the way of it, wide world over,
One is beloved, and one is the lover,
One gives and the other receives.
One lavishes all in a wild emotion,
One offers a smile for a life’s devotion,
One hopes and the other believes,
One lies awake in the night to weep
And the other drifts off in a sweet sound sleep.
One soul is aflame with a godlike passion,
One plays with love in an idler’s fashion,
One speaks and the other hears.
One sobs “I love you” and wet eyes show it,
And one laughs lightly, and says “I know it,”
With smiles for the other’s tears.
One lives for the other and nothing beside,
And the other remembers the world is wide.
This is the way of it, sad earth over,
The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover,
And the other learns to forget.
“For what is the use of endless sorrow?
Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-morrow;
And life is not over yet.”
Oh! I know this truth, if I know no other,
That passionate Love is Pain’s own mother.
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Only A Simple Rhyme
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,
Where “blisses” rhymed with “kisses,” “heart”, with “dart.”
Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,
To live on bravely, and to do my part.
A little rhyme about a heart that’s bleeding –
Of lonely hours, and sorrow’s unrelief.
I smiled at first; but there came with the reading,
A sense of sweet companionship in grief.
The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,
I thought about the singer of that song.
Some other breast felt this same weary aching,
Another found the summer days too long.
The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,
I read, and on the singer, all unknown,
I breathed a fervent, though a silent, blessing,
And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.
And though fame pass him, and he never know it,
And though he never sings another strain,
He has performed the mission of the poet,
In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
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