A Strain Of Music

In through the open window
    To the chamber where I lay,
There came the beat of merry feet,
    From the dancers over the way.
And back on the wings of the music
    That rose on the midnight air,
My rare youth came and spoke my name,
    And lo!    I was young and fair.

Once more in the glitter of gaslight
    I stood in my life's glad prime:
And heart and feet in a rhythm sweet
    Were keeping the music's time.
Like a leaf in the breeze of summer
    I drifted down the hall,
On an arm that is cold with death and mould,
    And is hidden under the pall.

Once more at a low voice's whisper
    (A voice that is long since stilled)
I felt the flush of a rising blush,
    And my pulses leaped and thrilled.
Once more in a sea of faces,
    I only saw one face;
And life grew bright with a new delight,
    And sweet with a nameless grace.

A crash of passionate music,
    A hush and a silence then;
The dancers rest in their pleasure quest,
    And lo!    I am old again.
Old and alone in my chamber,
    While the night wears wearily on,
And the pallid wraith of a broken faith -
    Keeps watch with me till the dawn.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox was an American author and poet, born on November 5, 1850, and died on October 30, 1919. She was known for her works expressing optimistic views and moral lessons. Her most famous book was 'Poems of Passion'. Her poem 'Solitude' contains the famous lines, 'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone'. Over her career, Wilcox became popularly known as a 'people's poet'.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Half Fledged

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

The Two Ages

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Rubies

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

This Is My Task

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

English

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The Phantom Ball

You remember the hall on the corner?
    To-night as I walked down street
I heard the sound of music,
    And the rhythmic beat and beat,
In time to the pulsing measure
    Of lightly tripping feet.

And I turned and entered the doorway -
    It was years since I had been there -
Years, and life seemed altered:
    Pleasure had changed to care.
But again I was hearing the music
    And watching the dancers fair.

And then, as I stood and listened,
    The music lost its glee;
And instead of the merry waltzers
    There were ghosts of the Used-to-be -
Ghosts of the pleasure-seekers
    Who once had danced with me.

Oh, 'twas a ghastly picture!
    Oh, 'twas a gruesome crowd!
Each bearing a skull on his shoulder,
    Each ...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Over The May Hill.

All through the night time, and all through the day time,
    Dreading the morning and dreading the night,
Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time
    Season of beauty and season of blight,
Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,
    Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere,
Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,
    Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.

Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,
    Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens,
Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary -
    Too well I know what that weariness means.
But how could I know in the crisp winter weather
    (Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath),
Riding and singing and dancing together,
    How could I know you were racing with death?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Over The May Hill

All through the night time, and all through the day time,
    Dreading the morning and dreading the night,
Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time
    Season of beauty and season of blight,
Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,
    Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere,
Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,
    Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.

Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,
    Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens,
Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary -
    Too well I know what that weariness means.
But how could I know in the crisp winter weather
    (Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath),
Riding and singing and dancing together,
    How could I know you were racing with death?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Memory's River

In Nature's bright blossoms not always reposes
    That strange subtle essence more rare than their bloom,
Which lies in the hearts of carnations and roses,
    That unexplained something by men called perfume.
Though modest the flower, yet great is its power
    And pregnant with meaning each pistil and leaf,
If only it hides there, if only abides there,
    The fragrance suggestive of love, joy, and grief.

Not always the air that a master composes
    Can stir human heart-strings with pleasure or pain.
But strange, subtle chords, like the scent of the roses,
    Breathe out of some measures, though simple the strain.
And lo! when you hear them, you love them and fear them,
    You tremble with anguish, you thrill with delight,
For back of them slumber old dreams...

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In The Night.

Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,
    I hear the strangest things, -
As my brain grows hot with burning thought,
    That struggles for form and wings,
I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet,
    As it speeds with a rush and a whir
From heart to brain and back again,
    Like a race-horse under the spur.

With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear
    The tender Silence speak,
As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,
    And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns
    For something that is kin;
And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,
    As it folds and fondles Sin.

In its hurrying race through leagues of space,
    I can hear the Earth catch breath,
As it heaves and moans, and shudders and...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Dirge

Death and a dirge at midnight;
    Yet never a soul in the house
Heard anything more than the throb and beat
    Of a beautiful waltz of Strauss.

Dead, dead, dead, and staring,
    With a ghastly smile on its face;
But the world saw only laughing eyes
    And roses, and billows of lace.

Floating and whirling together,
    Into the beautiful night,
How little you dreamed of the ghastly thing
    I was hiding away from your sight.

Meeting your dark eyes' splendour,
    Feeling your warm, sweet breath,
How could you know that my passionate heart
    Had died a horrible death?

Died in its fever and fervour,
    Died in its beautiful bloom;
And that waltz of Strauss was a funeral dirge,
    Leading the way to the tomb.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox