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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
A harsh and homely monosyllable, Abrupt and musicless, and at its best An inartistic object to the eye, Yet in this brief and troubled life of man How full of majesty the part it plays! It is the cradle which receives the soul, Naked and wailing, from the Maker's hand. It is the throne of Love's enlightenment; And when death offers back to God again The borrowed spirit, this the holy shrine From which the hills delectable are seen. Through all the anxious journey to that goal It is man's friend, physician, comforter. When labor wearies, and when pleasure palls, And the tired heart lets faith slip from its grasp, 'Tis here new courage and new strength are found, While doubt and darkness change to hope and light. It is the common ground between two spheres Where man and angels meet and converse hold, It is the confidant of hidden woe Masked from the world beneath a smiling brow. Into its silent breast young wakeful joy Whispers its secret through the starlit hours, And like a white-robed priestess, oft it hears The wild confession of a crime-stained soul That looks unflinching in the eyes of men. A common word, a thing unbeautiful, Yet in this brief, eventful life of man How large and varied is the part it plays.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail email@example.com