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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Custer, and Other Poems," Ella Wheeler Wilcox presents a compelling collection that captures the complexities of human emotion through vivid imagery and lyrical expression. Wilcox, known for her accessible style and poignant themes, utilizes free verse and structured forms to evoke a range of sentiments, from resilience in the face of adversity to the tenderness of love. The centerpiece poem, "Custer," intricately weaves historical narrative with personal reflection, illuminating not only the valor and tragedy of General Custer's life but also the broader consequences of ambition and folly. This work serves as a reflection of the late 19th-century American literary context, where romanticism and realism converge, providing a rich tapestry of thought and feeling. Ella Wheeler Wilcox was a prolific poet and writer whose life experiences significantly influenced her work. Born in 1850 in Wisconsin, she emerged as a prominent figure in the literary scene, championing optimism and emotional honesty. Her commitment to exploring the human condition and her encounters with notable contemporaries likely shaped the introspective and socially conscious themes in this collection. Wilcox's ability to articulate both personal and national narratives showcases her unique voice in American literature. Readers seeking a blend of historical reflection and lyrical beauty will find "Custer, and Other Poems" both enlightening and emotionally resonant. This collection is not only a testament to Wilcox's poetic prowess but also an exploration of the themes of ambition, loss, and the human spirit, making it a valuable addition to any literary bookshelf.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Custer, and Other Poems
Table of Contents
The World's Need
So many gods, so many creeds,So many paths that wind and wind,While just the art of being kind, Is all the sad world needs.
High Noon
Time's finger on the dial of my life Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark, Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light. Long life is sadder than an early death. We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink How brief the past, the future still more brief, Calls on to action, action! Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Have I done nobly? Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame. Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn. Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls So pity may shine through them.
Looking back, My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones That led the way to knowledge of the truth And made me value virtue; sorrows shine In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years, Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth, Out to the western sky still bright with noon, I feel well spurred and booted for the strife That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men and with myself, Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon, Three things I learned, three things of precious worth To guide and help me down the western slope. I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save. To pray for courage to receive what comes, Knowing what comes to be divinely sent. To toil for universal good, since thus And only thus can good come unto me. To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have To those who have not, this alone is gain.
Transformation
She waited in a rose-hued room;A wanton-hearted creature she,But beautiful and bright to see As some great orchid just in bloom.
Upon wide cushions stretched at easeShe lolled in garments filmy fine,Which but enhanced each rounded line; A living picture, framed to please.
A bold electric eye of lightLeered through its ruddy screen of laceAnd feasted on her form and face As some wine-crimsoned roué might.
From wall and niche, nude nymph beguiledFair goddesses of world-wide fame,But Psyche's self was put to shame By one who from the cushions smiled.
Exotic blossoms from a vaseTheir sweet narcotic breath exhaled;The lights, the objects round her paled— She lost the sense of time and place.
She seemed to float upon the air,Untrammeled, unrestricted, free;And rising from a vapory sea She saw a form divinely fair.
