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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I hold that life more fortunate by far That sits with its sweet memories alone And cherishes a joy for ever flown Beyond the reach of accident to mar. (Some joy that was extinguished like a star) Than that which makes the prize so much its own That its poor commonplacenesses are shown; (Which in all things, when viewed too closely, are.) Better to mourn a blossom snatched away Before it reached perfection, than behold With dry, unhappy eyes, day after day, The fresh bloom fade, and the fair leaf decay. Better to lose the dream, with all its gold, Than keep it till it changes to dull grey.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org