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Best Famous Ella Wheeler Wilcox Poems

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Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Last Love

 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 Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare As when, full master of his art, the air Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist's earliest effort wrought with care, The bard's first ballad, written in his tears, Set by his later toil seems poor and tame.
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years Let those who will demand the first fond flame, Give me the heart's last love, for that is best.

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem


 Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy, 
Is inspiration, eager to pursue, 
But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy, 
Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.
Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire, In passing by, but when she turns her face, Thou must persist and seek her with desire, If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace.
And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air, And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth, Still must thou strive to follow even there, That she may know thy valor and thy worth.
Then shall she come unveiling all her charms, Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears; Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms, The while she murmurs music in thine ears.
But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek, She shall flee from thee over hill and glade, So must thou seek and ever seek and seek For each new conquest of this phantom maid.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem


 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, 
Which, until you came, reigned royally, alone, 
My king, my master.
Since I saw your face I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.
I am as weak as other women are – Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far; Sometimes I think there is not space or room In all the earth for such a love as mine, And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.
I know that your desertion or neglect Could break my heart, as women’s hearts do break; If my wan days had nothing to expect From your love’s splendour, all joy would forsake The chambers of my soul.
Yes this is true.
And yet, and yet – one thing I keep from you.
There is a subtle part of me, which went Into my long pursued and worshipped art; Though your great love fills me with such content, No other love finds room now in my heart.
Yet that rare essence was my art’s alone.
Thank God, you cannot grasp it; ‘tis mine own.
Thank God, I say, for while I love you so, With that vast love, as passionate as tender, I feel an exultation as I know I have not made you a complete surrender.
Here is my body; bruise it, if you will, And break my heart; I have that something still.
You cannot grasp it.
Seize the breath of morn, Or bind the perfume of the rose as well.
God put it in my soul when I was born; It is not mine to give away, or sell, Or offer up on any alter shrine.
It was my art’s; and when not art’s, ‘tis mine.
For Love’s sake, I can put the art away, Or anything which stands ‘twixt me and you, But that strange essence God bestowed, I say, To permeate the work He gave to do: And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent Through any channel, save the one He meant.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Loves Language

 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, the greets its god-like guest – Thus doth Love speak.
How doth 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 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 doth 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 convulsive rapture of a kiss – Thus doth Love speak.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem


 When my blood flows calm as a purling river, 
When my heart is asleep and my brain has sway, 
It is then that I vow we must part for ever, 
That I will forget you, and put you away
Out of my life, as a dream is banished
Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes; 
That I know it will be when the spell has vanished, 
Better for both of our sakes.
When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason, I know it wiser for us to part; But Love is a spy who is plotting treason, In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
They whisper to me that the King is cruel, That his reign is wicked, his law a sin, And every word they utter is fuel To the flame that smoulders within.
And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot With the fever of youth and its mad desires, When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet, When my breast seems the centre of lava-fires, Oh, then is when most I miss you, And I swear by the stars and my soul and say That I will have you, and hold you, and kiss you, Though the whole world stands in the way.
And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal, My fierce emotions roam out of their lair; They hate King Reason for being royal – They would fire his castle, and burn him there.
O Love! They would clasp you, and crush you and kill you, In the insurrection of uncontrol.
Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you That is raging in my soul?

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Here And Now

 Here, in the heart of the world, 
Here, in the noise and the din, 
Here, where our spirits were hurled
To battle with sorrow and sin, 
This is the place and the spot
For knowledge of infinite things; 
This is the kingdom where Thought
Can conquer the prowess of kings.
Wait for no heavenly life, Seek for no temple alone; Here, in the midst of the strife, Know what the sages have known.
See what the Perfect Ones saw- God in the depth of each soul, God as the light and the law, God as beginning and goal.
Earth is one chamber of Heaven, Death is no grander than birth.
Joy in the life that was given, Strive for perfection on earth.
Here, in the turmoil and roar, Show what it is to be calm; Show how the spirit can soar And bring back its healing and balm.
Stand not aloof nor apart, Plunge in the thick of the fight.
There in the street and the mart, That is the place to do right.
Not in some cloister or cave, Not in some kingdom above, Here, on this side of the grave, Here, should we labor and love.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Christmas Fancies

 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, Are half forgotten faces Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know – When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near, We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear, That continent Elysian Long vanished from our vision, Youth’s lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear, Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth, The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth, And draws from youth’s recesses Some memory it possesses, And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth, When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss.
Not all the seers and sages With wisdom of the ages Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays, As passing years are proving for all of Time’s sad ways.
There lies a sting in pleasure, And fame gives shallow measure, And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days, For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes, And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes, Let Love, the worlds beginning, End fear and hate and sinning; Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshipped in all climes When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Poverty And Wealth

 The stork flew over a town one day, 
And back of each wing an infant lay; 
One to a rich man’s home he brought, 
And one he left at a labourer’s cot.
The rich man said, ‘My son shall be A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.
’ The labourer sighed, ‘’Tis the good God’s will That I have another mouth to fill.
’ The rich man’s son grew strong and fair, And proud with the pride of a millionaire.
His motto in life was, ‘Live while you may, ’ And he crowded years in a single day.
He bought position and name and place, And he bought him a wife with a handsome face.
He journeyed over the whole wide world, But discontent his heart lay curled Like a serpent hidden in leaves and moss, And life seemed hollow and gold was dross.
He scoffed at woman, and doubted God, And died like a beast and went back to the sod.
The son of the labourer tilled the soil, And thanked God daily for health and toil.
He wedded for love in his youthful prime, And two lives chorded in tune and time.
His wants were simple, and simple his creed, To trust God fully: it served his need, And lightened his labour, and helped him to die With a smile on his lips and a hope in his eye.
When all is over and all is done, Now which of these men was the richer one?
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem


 We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight To crown our lives with splendor, And quite ignore our daily store Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day, Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy We pass by and forget it, But worry strives to own our lives And conquers if we let it.
There's not a day in all the year But holds some hidden pleasure, And looking back, joys oft appear To brim the past's wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength To thank his God for sorrow Has found a joy without alloy To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; The hours and days a silent phrase Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow As weeks and months pass o'er us, And rise sublime at this good time, A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem


 Let us begin, dear love, where we left off; 
Tie up the broken threads of that old dream; 
And go on happy as before; and seem
Lovers again, though all the world may scoff.
Let us forget the graves, which lie between Our parting and our meeting, and the tears That rusted out the goldwork of the years; The frosts that fell upon our gardens green.
Let us forget the cold malicious Fate Who made our loving hearts her idle toys, And once more revel in the old sweet joys Of happy love.
Nay, it is not too late! Forget the deep-ploughed furrows in my brow; Forget the silver gleaming in my hair; Look only in my eyes! Oh! darling, there The old love shone no warmer then than now.
Down in the tender depths of thy dear eyes, I find the lost sweet memory of my youth, Bright with the holy radiance of thy truth, And hallowed with the blue of summer skies.
Tie up the broken threads, and let us go, Like reunited lovers, hand in hand, Back, and yet onward, to the sunny land Of our To Be, which was our Long Ago.