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The Land Of Content Post by :KFlood Category :Poems Author :Ella Wheeler Wilcox Date :March 2011 Read :2974

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The Land Of Content

I set out for the Land of Content,
By the gay crowded pleasure-highway,
With laughter, and jesting, I went
With the mirth-loving throng for a day;
Then I knew I had wandered astray,
For I met returned pilgrims, belated,
Who said, "We are weary and sated,
But we found not the Land of Content."

I turned to the steep path of fame,
I said, "It is over yon height -
This land with the beautiful name -
Ambition will lend me its light."
But I paused in my journey ere night,
For the way grew so lonely and troubled;
I said--my anxiety doubled -
"This is not the road to Content."

Then I joined the great rabble and throng
That frequents the moneyed world's mart;
But the greed, and the grasping and wrong,
Left me only one wish--to depart.
And sickened, and saddened at heart,
I hurried away from the gateway,
For my soul and my spirit said straightway.
"This is not the road to Content."

Then weary in body and brain,
An overgrown path I detected,
And I said "I will hide with my pain
In this byway, unused and neglected."
Lo! it led to the realm God selected
To crown with His best gifts of beauty,
And through the dark pathway of duty
I came to the land of Content.

(The end)
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poem: Land Of Content

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Warning (high In The Heavens I Saw The Moon This Morning) Warning (high In The Heavens I Saw The Moon This Morning)

Warning (high In The Heavens I Saw The Moon This Morning)
High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning, Albeit the sun shone bright;Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning, "Remember Night!"(The end)Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poem: Warning

To The West To The West

To The West
(In an interview with Lawrence Barrett, he said: "The literature of the New World must look to the West for its poetry.")Not to the crowded East, Where, in a well-worn groove,Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine, The trammelled mind must move--Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought,Or be counted vulgar and set at naught.Not to the languid South, Where the mariners of the brainAre lured by the Sirens of the Sense, And wrecked upon its main -Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind's breathTo a torpid sleep that