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Poetry of Creativity



Never Mind
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whatever your work and whatever its worth,
No matter how strong or clever,
Some one will sneer if you pause to hear,
And scoff at your best endeavour.
For the target art has a broad expanse,
And wherever you chance to hit it,
Though close be your aim to the bull's-eye fame,
There are those who will never admit it.

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Mistakes
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Through strife the slumbering soul awakes,
We learn on error's troubled route
The truths we could not prize without
The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

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Thoughts
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thoughts do not need the wings of words
To fly to any goal.
Like subtle lightnings, not like birds,
They speed from soul to soul.

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Secret Thoughts
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I hold it true that thoughts are things
Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings,
And that we send them forth to fill
The world with good results - or ill.

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Necessity
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

But for thy breath, the spark of living fire
Within me might have smouldered out at length;
But for thy lash which would not let me tire,
I never would have measured my own strength.

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Achievements
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Trust in thine own untried capacity
As thou wouldst trust in God Himself. Thy soul
Is but an emanation from the whole.
Thou dost not dream what forces lie in thee,
Vast and unfathomed as the grandest sea.
Thy silent mind o'er diamond caves may roll,
Go seek them - but let pilot will control
Those passions which thy favouring winds can be.

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Take Back This Virgin Page
By Thomas Moore

Take back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still,
Some hand more calm and sage
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come as pure as light,
Pure as even you require:
But oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.

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Gaspar Becerra
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

O thou sculptor, painter, poet!
Take this lesson to thy heart:
That is best which lieth nearest;
Shape from that thy work of art.

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The Iron Pen
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I thought this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies -
Of itself would arise, and write
My thanks and my surprise.

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The Poet And His Songs
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

For voices pursue him by day,
And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
When the Angel says: Write!

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Victorian Spring

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