Ella Wheeler Wilcox: Всі вірші поета

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The Ah Goo Tongue

The queerest languages known to man,

Sanscrit, Hebrew, Hindoostan,

Are all translated and made as free

And comprehensive as A B C.

Yet the oldest language talked or sung,

The strange mysterious Ah Goo tongue,

The royal language of Babyland

No man living can understand.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The King Of Candyland

Have you heard of the king of Candy land?

Well, listen while I sing,

He has pages on every hand,

For he is a mighty king,

And thousands of children bend the knee,

And bow to this ruler of high degree.

He has a smile, oh! like the sun!

And his face is round and bland,

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Maiden To Her Mirror

He said he loved me! Then he called my hair

Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow,

My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow;

And swore my round, full throat would bring despair

To Venus or to Psyche.

Time and care

Will fade these locks; the merry god, I trow,

Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Poor Little Toe

I am all tired out, said the mouth, with a pout,

I am all tired out with talk.

Just wait, said the knee, till you're lame as you can be—

And then have to walk—walk—walk.

My work, said the hand, is the hardest in the land.

Nay, mine is harder yet, said the brain;

When you toil, said the eye, as steadily as I,

O then you'll have reason to complain.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Married Coquette

Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics!

I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me.

It is time you found out that all men are not stoics,

Nor toys to be used as your mood may be.

I will not let go of your hands, nor leave you

Until I have spoken. No man, you say,

Dared ever so treat you before? I believe you,

For you have dealt only with boys till to-day.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In France I Saw A Hill

In France I saw a hill—a gentle slope

Rising above old tombs to greet the gleam

From soft spring skies. Beyond these skies dwells hope,

But those green graves bespeak a broken dream.

There was a row of narrow beds, new-made;

Each bore a starry banner and a cross.

And each the name of one who, ere he played

His rôle of warrior, met earth's final loss.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In Grandmamma's Kitchen

In grandmamma's kitchen, things got in a riot—

The cream in a pot on the shelf,

Where everything always seemed peaceful and quiet,

Got whipped, for I heard it myself.

And grandmamma said—such a queer thing to say,

That it made some things better to whip them that way.

Some bold naughty eggs that refused to be eaten,

On toast with their brothers may be,

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Flowers Have Tender Little Souls

The flowers have tender little souls

That love, rejoice, aspire.

Each star that on its orbit rolls

Feels infinite desire.

The diamond longs to scintillate

When hid beneath the sod.

The universe is animate

With consciousness of God.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Dorothy D

I'm sick of "musn'ts," said Dorothy D.

Sick of musn'ts, as I can be.

From early dawn till the close of day

I hear a musn't, and never a may.

It's "you musn't lie there like a sleepy head,"

And "you musn't sit up when it's time for bed."

"You musn't cry when I comb your curls,"

"You musn't play with those noisy girls."

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Death Of Labour

Methought a great wind swept across the earth,

And all the toilers perished. Then I saw

Pale terror blanch the rosy face of mirth,

And careless eyes grow full of fear and awe.

The sounds of pleasure ceased; the laughing song

On folly's lip changed to an angry cures:

A nameless horror seized the idle throng,

And death and ruin filled the universe.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Coming Man

Oh, not for the great departed,

Who formed our country's laws,

And not for the bravest-hearted

Who died in freedom's cause,

And not for some living hero

To whom all bend the knee,

My muse would raise her song of praise—

But for the man to be.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"Where Is Thy Brother?"

Oh! when I think in what a thorny way

The feet of men must ever walk and stray,

I do not wonder that so many fall,

But wonder more that any stand at all.

I look around me, and on every hand

I see the palaces of destruction stand

Like whited sepulchres: some seem to be

All white and clean, and pure as purity.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox