Ella Wheeler Wilcox – Three And One

Sometimes she seems so helpless and mild,

So full of sweet unreason and so weak,

So prone to some capricious whim or freak;

Now gay, now tearful, and now anger-wild,

By her strange moods of waywardness beguiled

And entertained, I stroke her pretty cheek,

And soothing words of peace and comfort speak;

And love her as a father loves a child.

Sometimes when I am troubled and sore pressed

On every side by fast advancing care,

She rises up with such majestic air,

I deem her some Olympian goddess-guest,

Who brings my heart new courage, hope, and rest.

In her brave eyes dwells balm for my despair,

And then I seem, while fondly gazing there,

A loving child upon my mothers breast.

Again, when her warm veins are full of life,

And youth’s volcanic tidal wave of fire

Sends the swift mercury of her pulses higher,

Her beauty stirs my heart to maddening strife,

And all the tiger in my blood is rife;

I love her with a lover’s fierce desire,

And find in her my dream, complete, entire,

Child, Mother, Mistress – all in one word – Wife.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox – Sing To Me

Sing to me! Something of sunlight and bloom,

I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,

I am so sick with the world’s noisse and strife, -

Sing of the beauty and brightness of life –

Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing to me! Something that’s jubilant, glad!

I am so weary, my soul so sad.

All my earth riches are covered with rust,

All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.

Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing og the blossoms that open in spring,

How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,

Say, though the winter is round about me,

There are bright summers and springs yet to be.

Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,

Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!

Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,

I have not quite done with happiness yet.

Sing to me, sing to me!

Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;

Turn the light lower – there- no, do not speak,

But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;

Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.

Sing to me, sing to me!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox – My Home

This is the place that I love the best,

A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,

Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,

Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen

Sifts through the vine-made window screen--

Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls

On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June the west wind free

The breath of clover brings to me.

All through the languid July day

I catch the scent of new-mown hay.

The morning-glories and scarlet vine

Over the doorway twist and twine;

And every day, when the house is still,

The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun

I sink to sleep when the day is done;

And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,

By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome,

Are the living pictures I see at home--

My aged father, with frosted hair,

And mother's face, like a painting rare.

Far from the city's dust and heat,

I get but sounds and odors sweet.

Who can wonder I love to stay,

Week after week, here hidden away,

In this sly nook that I love the best--

This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?

Sylvia Plath – Barren Woman

Empty, I echo to the least footfall,

Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.

In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,

Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies

Exhale their pallor like scent.

I imagine myself with a great public,

Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.

Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.

Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.

Anne Brontë – I hoped

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,

My portioned task might lie;

To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part,

And He has fixed it well;

I said so with my bleeding heart,

When first the anguish fell.

Thou, God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away:

Thou bid'st us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,

Can I but turn to Thee.

With secret labour to sustain

In humble patience every blow;

To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er may be my written fate:

Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet a while to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,

More humbled I should be;

More wise--more strengthened for the strife--

More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow:

But, Lord! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now!