A Sculptor

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
Before my half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining tools of mental gifts.
I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side
Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.
And no trace
Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
And the sharp corners of my discontent
Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires.
Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, ''Tis done.'

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Saddest Hour

The saddest hour of anguish and of loss
Is not that season of supreme despair
When we can find no least light anywhere
To gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross;
Not in that luxury of sorrow when
We sup on salt of tears, and drink the gall
Of memories of days beyond recall—
Of lost delights that cannot come again.
But when, with eyes that are no longer wet,
We look out on the great, wide world of men,
And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,
Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,
To find that we are learning to forget:
Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Attainment

Use all your hidden forces.

Do not miss the purpose of this life,
and do not wait for circumstance
to mold or change your fate.
In your own self lies destiny.

Let this vast truth cast out all fear,
all prejudice, all hesitation.
Know that you are great --
great with divinity.

Do dominate environment, and enter into bliss.
Live largely, and hate nothing.

Hold no aim that does not chord
with universal good.

Hear what the voices of the silence say.
All joys are yours if you put forth your claim.

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Forward

Let me look always forward. Never back.
Was I not formed for progress? Otherwise
With onward pointing feet and searching eyes
Would God have set me squarely on the track
Up which we all must labour with life's pack?
Yonder the goal of all this travel lies.
What matters it, if yesterday the skies
With light were golden, or with clouds were black?
I would not lose to-morrow's glow of dawn
By peering backward after sun's long set.
New hope is fairer than an old regret;
Let me pursue my journey and press on-
Nor tearful eyed, stand ever in one spot,
A briny statue like the wife of Lot.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Joy

My heart is like a little bird
That sits and sings for very gladness.
Sorrow is some forgotten word,
And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.

The world is very fair to me –
Such azure skies, such golden weather,
I’m like a long caged bird set free,
My heart is lighter than a feather.

I rise rejoicing in my life;
I live with love of God and neighbour;
My days flow on unmarred by strife,
And sweetened by my pleasant labour.

O youth! O spring! O happy days,
Ye are so passing sweet, and tender,
And while the fleeting season stays,
I revel care-free, in its splendour.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Finis

An idle rhyme of the summer time,
Sweet, and solemn, and tender;
Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays,
Bright with the sunset's splendour.

Summer and beauty over the lands -
Careless hours of pleasure;
A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands -
A change in the floating measure.

A deeper hue in the skies of blue,
Winds from the tropics blowing;
A softer grace in the fair moons face,
And the summer going, going.

The leaves drift down, the green grows brown,
And tears with smiles are blended;
A twilight hour and a treasured flower, -
And now the poem is ended.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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They Shall Not Win

Whatever the strength of our foes is now,
Whatever it may have been,
This is our slogan, and this our vow-
They shall not win, they shall not win.

Though out of the darkness they call the aid
Of the evil forces of Sin,
We utter our slogan unafraid-
They shall not win, they shall not win.

We know we are right, and know they are wrong.
So to God above and within-
We make our vow and we sing our song
They shall not win, they shall not win.

It rises over the shriek of shell,
And over the cannons' din:

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Jealous Gods

Oh life is wonderful,' she said,
'And all my world is bright;
Can Paradise show fairer skies,
Or more effulgent light?'
(Speak lower, lower, mortal heart,
The jealous gods may hear.)

She turned for answer; but his gaze
Cut past her like a lance,
And shone like flame on one who came
With radiant glance for glance.
(You spoke too loud, O mortal heart,
The jealous gods were near.)

They walked through green and sunlit ways;
And yet the earth seemed black,
For there were three, where two should be;
So runs the world, alack.

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Ambition's Trail

If all the end of this continuous striving
Were simply to attain,
How poor would seem the planning and contriving
The endless urging and the hurried driving
Of body, heart and brain!

But ever in the wake of true achieving,
There shine this glowing trail –
Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving,
New strength and hope, in its own power believing,
Because thou didst not fail.

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow,
If thou doth miss the goal,
Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow
From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow –
On, on, ambitious soul.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Shovel And Tongs

The Poker proposed to the shovel
That they should be man and wife,
'I think,' said he, 'that we could agree
As we journey along through life.'

The Shovel blushed as she answered,
'I thank you kindly, Mister,
But my promise belongs to the faithful Tongs,
So I only can be your sister.'

And when the couple were married
The Stove gave the Shovel away;
And it seemed too bad that the Poker, poor lad,
Was the Tongs' best man on that day.

But the Poker soon after was wedded
To the hearth broom, slender and slick;
And 'twas whispered about Mrs. Tongs was put out
Because he found comfort so quick.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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