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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.

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
Thinks
Takes
Small
Soul
Men
Distrust
Thinking
Larger
World
Tells
Measure

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Let there be many windows to your soul, that all the glory of the world may beautify it.
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Give her not greatness. For great souls must stand Alone and lonely in this little world: Cleft rocks that show the great Creator's hand, Thither by earthquakes hurled.
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Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it.
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God sent us here to make mistakes
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Talk faith. The world is better off without, Your uttered ignorance and morbid doubt.
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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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Change is the watchword of progression.
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Love gives us copious potions of delight, Of pain and ecstasy, and peace and care Love leads us upward, to the mountain height, And, like an angel, stands beside us there Then thrusts us, demon-like, in some abyss: Where, in the darkness of despair, we grope, Till, suddenly, Love greets us with a kiss And guides us back to flowery fields of hope.
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Let no man pray that he know not sorrow, Let no soul ask to be free from pain, For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow, And the moment's loss is the lifetime's gain.
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There is nothing we cannot live down, and rise above, and overcome.
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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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There is no balking genius. Only death can silence it or hinder.
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I was as pure as the morning When I first looked on your face I knew I never could reach you In your high, exalted place.
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Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear, your head like the golden rod, and we will go sailing away from here to the beautiful Land Of Nod.
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It is a common fate -- a woman's lot -- To waste on one the riches of her soul, Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
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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!
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Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear As valued friends. He cannot know The zest of life who runneth here His earthly race without a foe.
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We waste half our strength in a useless regretting We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.
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