Quote

And he who has dwelt with his heart alone, Hears all the music in friendship's tone. So better and better I comprehend How sorrow ever would be our friend.

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
Friend
Alone
Dwelt
Music
Hears
Better
Comprehend
Ever
Tone
Heart
Forgiveness
Would
Sorrow
Friendship

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Better than glory, or honors, or fame, (Though I am striving for those to-day) To know that some heart will cherish my name, And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.
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Always continue to climb.
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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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I like the roar of cities. In the mart, Where busy toilers strive for place and gain, I seem to read humanity's great heart, And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain.
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All the past is not worth one today.
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This world is a vaporous jest at best, Tossed off by the gods in laughter, And a cruel attempt at wit were it, If nothing better came after.
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Love is a spy who is plotting treason, In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
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Life is a garden forever in flower.
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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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Just a little every day That's the way Children learn to read and write Bit by bit and mite by mite.
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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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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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Who would attain to summits still and fair,Must nerve himself through valleys of despair.
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The passion you forbade my lips to utter Will not be silenced. You must hear it in The sullen thunders when they roll and mutter: And when the tempest nears, with wail and din, I know your calm forgetfulness is broken, And to your heart you whisper, He has spoken.
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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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God made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part. We must not blame, but pity her.
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We two make banquets of the plainest fare In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure... For us life always moves with lilting measure We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure
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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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I Love your lips when they're wet with wine and red with wicked desire.
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For this is wisdom- to love and live To take what fate or the Gods may give, To ask no question, to make no prayer, To kiss the lips and caress the hair, Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow, To have and to hold, and, in time--let go.
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