Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I think that the bitterest sorrow or pain
Of love unrequited, or cold death's woe,
Is sweet, ...

Passion is what the sun feels for the earth
When harvests ripen into golden birth. Lust ...

There are songs enough for the hero
Who dwells on the heights of fame;
I sing for the disappoi...

Distrust that man who tells you to distrust;
He takes the measure of his own small soul,
And ...

I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor McKey,
Were singing together a blit...

Between the acts while the orchestra played
That sweet old waltz with the lilting measure,
I d...

Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,
A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,
One day all met tog...

After you went away, our lovely room
Seemed like a casket whence the soul had fled.
I stood in...

Trust in thine own untried capacity
As thou wouldst trust in God himself. Thy soul
Is but an em...

On the white throat of the useless passion
That scorched my soul with its burning breath,
I cl...

You call me an angel of love and light,
A being of goodness and heavenly fire,
Sent out from ...

If all the year was summertime,
And all the aim of life
Was just to lilt on like a rhyme--
Th...

I prayed for riches, and achieved success;
All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!
My care...

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning
For spiritual perfection here below,
This vigorous f...

Before this scarf was faded,
What hours of mirth it knew!
How gayly it paraded
For smiling ey...