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Solitude
By peace | August 1, 2007
Ella Wheeler Wilcox is one of America’s great writers. Ella was born in the village of Johnstown, Rock County, Wisconsin. Her parents were Marcus H. Wheeler, and Sarah Pratt Wheeler, with three older children they had followed, “Grandsir Pratt” from Vermont in 1849. Her prolific prose and poetry are a tour de force of optimism, of the triumph of hope over despair, of victory over failure, of good over evil, of kindness over selfishness. She gave no quarter to negativity. The harshness of life was but an opportunity to change lead into gold. She was a transcendental alchemist. She wrote not only poetry; but did a great deal of prose writing as well. A number of her essays specifically on New Thought themes appeared in a volume entitled The Heart of New Thought, which the publisher’s preface described as a “Noteworthy interpretation of New Thought, the backbone of which philosophy is the Power of Right Thought…Mrs. Wilcox is ever the voice of the people: what she says is practical, what she thinks is clear, what she feels is plain.” Ella Wheeler Wilcox died on October 30, 1919, at her home in Short Beach, Conn. “The art of being kind” was her religion, and she lived it every day of her life. The world is better because Ella Wheeler Wilcox lived.
Solitude
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox (5 November 1855 - 30 October 1919) “The Golden Girl”
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.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Topics: Poems, View All Post |
