Last Love
The first flower of the spring is not so fair
Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings.
The first faint note the forest warbler sings
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare
As when, full master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist's earliest effort wrought with care,
The bard's first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil seems poor and tame.
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart's last love, for that is best.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Vous avez aimé cette poésie ? faites la connaître !
D'autres poésies de Ella Wheeler Wilcox
"It Might Have Been"
We will be what we could be. Do not say,
"It might have...
A Baby In The House
I knew that a baby was hid in that house,
Though I saw...
A Fallen Leaf
A trusting little leaf of green,
A bold audacious frost;...
A Fatal Impress
A little leaf just in the forest's edge,
All summer long,...
A Golden Day
The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy...
A Grey Mood
As we hurry away to the end, my friend,
Of this sad...
A Holiday
The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children...
A Leaf
Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve,
That you were...
A Lovers' Quarrel
We two were lovers, the Sea and I;
We plighted our troth...
A Maiden To Her Mirror
He said he loved me! Then he called my hair
Silk threads...
Précédentes poésies
Women
My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black...
Victory
Something spreading underground won't speak to us
under...
Two Songs
1.
Sex, as they harshly call it,
I fell into...
Stepping Backward
Good-by to you whom I shall see tomorrow,
Next year and...
Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law
1
You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with...
