22 Most Popular Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
     Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it’s well understood,
     The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man’s wealth,
     You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life’s little span,
     Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
     Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
     Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth’s masses
     Are always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,
     There’s only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load
     Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share
     Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes, and torments, and desires,
Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze.
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

Sitting to-day in the sunshine
    That touched me with fingers of love,
I thought of the manifold blessings
    God scatters on earth, from above;
And they seemed, as I numbered them over,
    Far more than we merit, or need,
And all that we lack is the angels
    To make earth a heaven indeed.

The winter brings long, pleasant evenings,
    The spring brings a promise of flowers
That summer breathes into fruition;
    And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
The woodlands re-echo with music,
    The moonbeams ensilver the sea;
There is sunlight and beauty about us,
    And the world is as fair as can be.

But mortals are always complaining!
    Each one thinks his own a sad lot,
And forgetting the good things about him,
    Goes mourning for those he has not.
Instead of the star-spangled heavens,
    We look on the dust at our feet;
We drain out the cup that is bitter,
    Forgetting the one that is sweet.

We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower,
    Forgetting its odor and bloom;
We pass by a garden of blossoms,
    To weep o'er the dust of the tomb.
There are blessings unnumbered about us--
    Like the leaves of the forest they grow;
And the fault is our own--not the Giver's--
    That we have not Eden below.

The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.

The Husband
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.

The Wife
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack -
The love-light in your eye.

The Husband
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.

The Wife (turning)
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho' poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.

The Husband (musing)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex -
Zounds! but 'tis difficult to please the sex.
I've housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.

The birds laugh loud and long together
    When Fashion's followers speed away
At the first cool breath of autumn weather.
    Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay!
When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over
    Both look their passion through sun-kissed space,
As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover
    Might each gaze into the other's face.

Oh! this is the time when careful spying
    Discovers the secrets Nature knows.
You find when the butterflies plan for flying
    (Before the thrush or the blackbird goes),
You see some day by the water's edges
    A brilliant border of red and black;
And then off over the hills and hedges
    It flutters away on the summer's track.

The shy little sumacs, in lonely places,
    Bowed all summer with dust and heat,
Like clean-clad children with rain-washed faces,
    Are dressed in scarlet from head to feet.
And never a flower had the boastful summer,
    In all the blossoms that decked her sod,
So royal hued as that later comer
    The purple chum of the goldenrod.

Some chill grey dawn you note with grieving
    That the King of Autumn is on his way.
You see, with a sorrowful, slow believing,
    How the wanton woods have gone astray,
They wear the stain of bold caresses,
    Of riotous revels with old King Frost;
They dazzle all eyes with their gorgeous dresses,
    Nor care that their green young leaves are lost.

A wet wind blows from the East one morning,
    The wood's gay garments looked draggled out.
You hear a sound, and your heart takes warning―
    The birds are planning their winter route.
They wheel and settle and scold and wrangle,
    Their tempers are ruffled, their voices loud;
Then whirr and away in a feathered tangle,
    To fade in the south like a passing cloud.

            Envoi
A songless wood stripped bare of glory―
    A sodden moor that is black and brown;
The year has finished its last love-story:
    Oh! let us away to the gay bright town.

God sent us here to make mistakes,
    To strive, to fail, to re-begin,
    To taste the tempting fruit of sin,
And find what bitter food it makes.

To miss the path, to go astray,
    To wander blindly in the night;
    But, searching, praying for the light,
Until at last we find the way.

And looking back along the past,
    We know we needed all the strain
    Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
To make us value peace, at last.

Who fails, finds later triumph sweet;
    Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
    And knows the place to cry "Beware"
To other unaccustomed feet.

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.

When first I looked upon the face of Pain
    I shrank repelled, as one shrinks from a foe
    Who stands with dagger poised, as for a blow.
I was in search of Pleasure and of Gain;
I turned aside to let him pass: in vain;
    He looked straight in my eyes and would not go.
    "Shake hands," he said, "our paths are one, and so
We must be comrades on the way, 'tis plain."

I felt the firm clasp of his hand on mine;
    Through all my veins it sent a strengthening glow.
    I straightway linked my arm in his, and lo!
He led me forth to joys almost divine;
    With God's great truths enriched me in the end,
    And now I hold him as my dearest friend.

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
    Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
    Before my half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining tools of mental gifts.
    I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side,
Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.

                And no trace
    Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
    And the sharp corners of my discontent
    Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires.
    Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
    Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."