Quote

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Age: 68 †
Born: 1850
Born: November 5
Died: 1919
Died: October 30
Author
Poet
Writer
Janesville
Wisconsin
Must
Halls
Narrow
Train
Large
Lordly
Room
Aisles
Rooms
File
Pleasure
Aisle
Pain
Files

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High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning, Albeit the sun shone bright Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning, Remember Night!
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It has always been my belief that children inherit the suppressed tendencies of their parents. A clergyman's son frequently shows abnormal tastes for the pleasures that his father denied himself.
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So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs.
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Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait, And die at last with unappeased desire, Than live to be the jest of such a fate, For that is my conception of hell-fire.
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Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek And sought the mourner's side again. Once more, dear lady, I must speak: Your last remaining son was slain Just at the closing of the fight Twas he who sent me here to-night. God knows, the man said afterward, The fight itself was not so hard.
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I Love your lips when they're wet with wine and red with wicked desire.
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With care, and skill, and cunning art, She parried Time's malicious dart, And kept the years at bay, Till passion entered in her heart and aged her in a day!
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All the past is not worth one today.
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Day's sweetest moments are at dawn.
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You may choose your words like a connoisseur, And polish it up with art, But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays, Is the word that comes from the heart.
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A poor original is better than a good imitation.
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You are your own devil, you are your own God, You fashioned the paths that your footsteps have trod, And no one can save you from error or sin, Until you shall hark to the Spirit within.
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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.
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Time sped. And the poet through sorrow Became like his suffering kind. Again he toiled over his poems To lighten the grief of his mind.
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Good music is wine turned to sound
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Distrust that man who tells you to distrust. He takes the measure of his own small soul, and thinks the world no larger.
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Do you wish the world were happy? Then remember day by day, just to scatter seeds of kindness as you pass along the way. . . .
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The birds laugh loud and long together When Fashion's followers speed away At the first cool breath of autumn weather. Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay! When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over Both look their passion through sun-kissed space, As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover Might each gaze into the other's face.
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I think of death as some delightful journey that I shall take when all my tasks are done.
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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.
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