Belgium

Ruined? destroyed?    Ah, no; though blood in rivers ran
Down all her ancient streets; though treasures manifold
Love-wrought, Time-mellowed, and beyond the price of gold
Are lost, yet Belgium's star shines still in God's vast plan.

Rarely have Kings been great, since kingdoms first began;
Rarely have great kings been great men, when all was told.
But, by the lighted torch in mailed hands, behold,
Immortal Belgium's immortal king, and Man.

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

An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Burdened

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Life And I

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

English

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To Belgium

    Our tears, our songs, our laurels - what are these
        To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss,
    Stretched in thine unimagined agonies
        On Hell's last engine of the Iron Cross.

    For such a world as this that thou shouldst die
        Is price too vast - yet, Belgium, hadst thou sold
    Thyself, O then had fled from out the earth
        Honour for ever, and left only Gold.

    Nor diest thou - for soon shalt thou awake,
        And, lifted high on our victorious shields,
    Watch the new sunrise driving for your sons
        The hated German shadow from your fields.




"British colonists resident in London volunteer, and
not even silk hats are doffed before training begins"

        - New York Times

Richard Le Gallienne

After

Over the din of battle,
Over the cannons' rattle,
Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans,
I hear the falling of thrones.

Out of the wild disorder
That spreads from border to border,
I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;
And the Rulers wear no crowns.

Over the blood-charged water,
Over the fields of slaughter,
Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things
I see the passing of Kings.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After

Over the din of battle,
Over the cannons' rattle,
Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans,
I hear the falling of thrones.

Out of the wild disorder
That spreads from border to border,
I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;
And the rulers wear no crowns.

Over the blood-charged water,
Over the fields of slaughter,
Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things,
I see the passing of kings.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

At Fontainebleau

At Fontainebleau, I saw a little bed
Fashioned of polished wood, with gold ornate,
Ambition, hope, and sorrow, ay, and hate
Once battled there, above a childish head,
And there in vain, grief wept, and memory plead
    It was so small! but Ah, dear God, how great
    The part it played in one sad woman's fate.
How wide the gloom, that narrow object shed.

The symbol of an over-reaching aim,
    The emblem of a devastated joy,
    It spoke of glory, and a blasted home:
Of fleeting honours, and disordered fame,
    And the lone passing of a fragile boy.

* * *

It was the cradle of the King of Rome.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

On The Belgian Expatriation

I dreamt that people from the Land of Chimes
Arrived one autumn morning with their bells,
To hoist them on the towers and citadels
Of my own country, that the musical rhymes

Rung by them into space at meted times
Amid the market's daily stir and stress,
And the night's empty star-lit silentness,
Might solace souls of this and kindred climes.

Then I awoke; and lo, before me stood
The visioned ones, but pale and full of fear;
From Bruges they came, and Antwerp, and Ostend,

No carillons in their train. Foes of mad mood
Had shattered these to shards amid the gear
Of ravaged roof, and smouldering gable-end.

October 18, 1914.

Thomas Hardy

Helena.

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise
    Of late all men have sounded. She for whom
    Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb
Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long,
    She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile
    I find no fascination in her smile,
Although I make her theme of this poor song.

"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair,
    And yet to me each shining silken tress
    Seems robbed of beauty and all lusterless -
Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

(I know a little maiden so demure
    She will not let her one true lover's hands
    In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands,
So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at ...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox