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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


Sonnets of Sorrow. 12. If, till we met, no Maker had existed


If, till we met, no Maker had existed,
If life was finite and man but a clod,
This flaming love of ours has so persisted
Its very glory would have made a God.
It was too vast for love of man and woman,
Too high for earth, too might for the tomb;
It grew up over and beyond ways human,
And sought a garden of perpetual bloom.

Long, long ago, we sensed that garden's beauty,
And talked together of its pure delight.
How is it now you feel no urge of duty,
To help my straining vision gain its sight?
How is it that, although I gaze and hark,
I find but deathly silence--and the dark?



Ella Wheeler Wilcox


Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
  1. The Birth of the Opal
  2. The Awakening (I love the tropics, where sun and rain)
  3. The Breaking of Chains
  4. The Chain
  5. The Coming Man


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