Idag uppmärksammas några dikter från författaren Ella Wheeler Wilcox från hennes diktsamling Poems of passion, 1883

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

— Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "Solitude" (1883)

Här är fler dikter från samma diktsamling: 

LOVE’S LANGUAGE

How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye—
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh—
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Till as the tranquil stream grows turbulent and hoarse;
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek—
The sudden silence and reserve when near—
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear—
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its godlike guest—
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek—
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one beloved face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble—
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss—
Thus doth Love speak.
— Ella Wheeler Wilcox

IMPATIENCE

How can I wait until you come to me?
The once fleet mornings linger by the way;
Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee
At my unrest, they seem to pause and play
Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
How can I wait?

How can I wait? The flowers, all in blow,
Mock my locked senses with a vain display;
The breezes that with faint caresses blow
Come newly from your presence far away,
And seem to whisper what they dare not say—
How can I wait?

How can I wait? The sunshine-filled to-day
Is cold and barren of the joys I crave;
My hands are tied—I can nor work nor play,
But sit in chains, a captive and a slave
To love’s sweet will, and sigh from morn till eve—
How can I wait?

How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours
Refused to pause or loiter with me long;
But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer blooms, not heeding my one song—
How can I wait?

How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;
They reach forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;
And time speeds by on light and airy wing—
I feast upon your face, I no more sing,
How can I wait?
— Ella Wheeler Wilcox

ATTRACTION

The meadow and the mountain with desire
Gazed on each other, till a second sight
Made them acquainted; then their pulses beat
Faster and faster, till their veins were sweet
With love’s own fever; and their passion grew
Till in their orbs a richer tint and hue
Glowed like a dream of heaven. The meadow gave
Her emeralds to the mountain’s hoary cave,
And he, in turn, sent down his crystal rills
To thread her grasses and to turn her mills.

So grew the love ’twixt mountain and the plain,
Till neither’s heart could know a separate pain;
And so they suffered—lived and loved alway,
Through circling seasons of eternal day—
The type of love that thrills my heart and brain,
When in your presence standing, I am fain
To give my all—my life—my soul to you,
And take your all, whatever you may do—
And feel no loss, but gain, in such exchange,
And find completeness in the wide, wild range
Of one made perfect by another’s good—
Two souls united as their source is God.
— Ella Wheeler Wilcox

WEARINESS

I saw a sweet flower droop and fade,
I saw a bird sink on the wing,
I saw a sun set in a blaze,
And leave the world a darkened thing—
And then I turned me to my love,
And found a weary heart and cold—
Oh, better far the flower’s fate,
Than love grown passionless and old!

I saw a gray dawn slowly break,
I saw a dull rain drench the earth,
I saw a child awake in pain,
Who never knew a moment’s mirth—
And then I sought my love again,
And found a heart still cold to me—
Oh, better far the child’s sad lot,
Than love that lives in misery!

I saw a wreck upon the sea,
I saw a strong man bow with care,
I saw a youth grow old with grief,
And whiten with a great despair—
And then I sought my love once more,
And found no answering thrill or tone—
Oh, better far the strong man’s woe,
Than love that lives, yet lives alone!
— Ella Wheeler Wilcox