The Hour (Ella Wheeler Wilcox Poems)
This is the world's stupendous hour—The supreme moment for the raceTo see the emptiness of power,The worthlessness of wealth and ...
This is the world's stupendous hour—The supreme moment for the raceTo see the emptiness of power,The worthlessness of wealth and ...
The sick man said: "I pray I shall not die Before this tumult which now rocks the earth Shall cease. ...
MY heart was wandering in the sands, a restless thing, a scorn apart; Love set his fire in my hands, ...
Because I am young, therefore I must be killed; Because I am strong, so must my strength be maimed; Because ...
After our fierce loving in the brief time we found to be together, you lay in the half light exhausted, ...
NExt Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muse! ) I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse. O Queen ...
1917 (To Lyde of the Music Halls) What boots it on the Gods to call? Since, answered or unheard, We ...
The faces of the people screaming for justice their voices sounding from behind the frames surrounded ever by the silent ...
Our life is a fire dampened, or a fire shut up in stone. --Jacob Boehme, De Incarnatione Verbi Outside everything ...
I Everyone has their own peculiar price, not quantifiable in currency. When my hypodermic grazed your vein, you confessed yours. ...
Doors were left open in heaven again: drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages around roofs and trees. Like wet ...
SOME have won a wild delight, By daring wilder sorrow; Could I gain thy love to-night, I'd hazard death to-morrow. ...
Visits of condolence is all we get from them. They squat at the Holocaust Memorial, They put on grave faces ...
New Castle, July 4, 1878 or a hundred years the pulse of time Has throbbed for Liberty; For a hundred ...
I. He was a Grecian lad, who coming home With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily Stood at his galley's ...
Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it, And ...
The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree, Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires Far from the breezes of Coolgardie Burn ...
Earth no longer hymns the Creator, the seven days of wonder, the Garden is over - all the stories are ...
Where is the seed Of the tree felled, Of the forest burned, Or living root Under ash and cinders? From ...
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity. . . . A window, holy gold. The ...
A Survivor's Burden A Memorial Tribute in Poetry to Simon Wiesenthal After six million Jews were silenced: Simon speaks above ...
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