Maurine And Other Poems

Maurine and other poems
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Maurine and Other Poems - Ella Wheeler Wilcox - Poetry - Sound Book - English - 2/4

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Back to home page. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other's sigh. How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other's eyes this way And know love's gone forever, as we do.

Maurine, and other poems.

Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earth And see love's flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart. I've known loves without number - True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died. Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And--yes, I've seen him yawn. So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.

We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year.

Maurine : and other poems

For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose. We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night.

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Winter Rain. Fleeing Away. Details if other :. Some features of WorldCat will not be available. Three-Quarter Leather. He must have felt her soft hand on his brow. More information about this seller Contact this seller 5.

And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendour, We'll take him back again. And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee! When thy gaze Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe. But when it falls upon a fellow-man Let kindliness control it; and refrain From that belittling censure that springs forth From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.

Life holds no thing to be anticipated, And I am sad from being satisfied. The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain Has left me now the highest point is gained. The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountain Was sweeter than the waters were when drained. The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, And which I purchased with my youth and strength, Pleased me a moment.

But the empty treasure Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length. And love, all glowing with a golden glory, Delighted me a season with its tale.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

It pleased the longest, but at last the story, So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale. I lived for self, and all I asked was given, I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, No other punishment designed by Heaven Could strike me half so forcibly as this. I feel no sense of aught but enervation In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, And know no wish but for annihilation, Since that would give me freedom from the thought Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.

For him there is a hope not yet completed; For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain. But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, But sick and sated with complete fruition, Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.

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Her heart that once had been a cup well filled With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall, She knew was empty; though it had not spilled Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all. She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, And saw her soul's bright armour red with rust, And knew that all the riches of her youth Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.

Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, Made her cry out that she was ever born To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.

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IF Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world; If we could dwell there, ever more alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place; If Winter never visited that land, And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twined boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers; If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me - Ah!

But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is commonplace and workaday, As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old; Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, 'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.

He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me. Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say. Wings of dead white butterflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair. With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eyelids close. Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves--you understand. Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall - As we kneel by him and say, "Dreams to dreams," and turn away. Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust, They will lower him to the dust. Let us part here with a kiss - You go that way, I go this.

Since we buried Love to-day We will walk a separate way.

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Popular Edition, with many New Poems. Title-piece for Maurine and other Poems .jpg. GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD. 12 AND 13 HENRIETTA. Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg.

Even so, I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes - 'Twas thine own hand which dealt dear Love's death-blow. I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then Thy heart was like a covered golden cup Always above my eager lip held up. I fancied thou wert not as other men. I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine, Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine. Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled Its precious contents.

Even to the lees Were offered to me, saying, "Drink of these! No word was left unsaid, no act undone, To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.

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Love, hadst thou been wise enough to save One little drop of that sweet wine--but one - I still had loved thee, longing for it then. But even the cup is mine. I look within, And find it holds not one last drop to win, And cast it down. Let us not ask for gold. Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness; In those serene, Arcadian days of old Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress, The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia's height Lived only for dear love and love's delight. Love is enough.

Why should we care for fame? Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: It lures us with the glory of a name Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. Let us stay here in this secluded place Made beautiful by love's endearing grace! Why should we strive for power? It brings men only envy and distrust. The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, And earthly honours vanish in the dust. The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate; Let me be loved, and let who will be great.

Why should we ask for more?