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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
Thinking
Larger
World
Tells
Measure
Thinks
Takes
Small
Soul
Men
Distrust

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Hide in your heart a bitter thought, Still it has power to blight Think Love, although you speak it not It gives the world more light.
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Content is not the pathway to great deeds.
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Give thy love freely, do not count the cost: So beautiful a thing was never lost.
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I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain, And troubles swarm like bees about a hive I shall believe the heights for which I strive Are only reached by anguish and by pain And though I groan and tremble with my crosses, I yet shall see, through my severest losses, The greater gain.
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The man who radiates good cheer, who makes life happier wherever he meets it, is always a man of vision and faith.
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I Love your lips when they're wet with wine and red with wicked desire.
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There is nothing we cannot live down, and rise above, and overcome.
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Say you are well, or all is well with you, and God shall hear your words and make them true.
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Then I turned to him commanding That he go the way he came, whence he came. But he answered me in sorrow, May the Past not seek to borrow From the Present without blame - Just one memory from its store, Ere it goes to come no more, Back the pathway that it came, whence it came?
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The art of being kind is all the world needs.
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I know there are no errors, In the great Eternal plan.
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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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Always continue to climb.
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Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need, Or sin by silence when I should defend... The world is better that I lived to-day.
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But now I know that there is no killing A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling That which is part of your life and breath. You may bury it deep, and leave behind you The land, the people that knew your slain It will push the sods from its grave, and find you On wastes of water or desert plain.
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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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Through strife the slumbering soul awakes, We learn on error's troubled route The truths we could not prize without The sorrow of our sad mistakes.
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Laugh, and the world laughs with you: Weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own.
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No fate could rob us of our own-- No circumstance can make it less What time removes was but a loan, For what was ours we still possess.
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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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