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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384346" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Clara Morris (Written for a Benefit Given Mrs. Morris)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Radiant Ruler of Mystic Regions<br>Where souls of artists are fitted for birth,<br>Gathered together their lovely legions<br>And fashioned a woman to shine on earth.<br>They bathed her in splendor<br>They made her tender:<br>They gave her a nature both sweet and wild.<br>They gave her emotions<br>Like storm stirred oceans,<br>And they gave her the heart of a little child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>These Radiant Rulers (who are not human<br>Nor yet divine like the gods above)<br>Poured all their gifts in the soul of a woman<br>That fragile vessel meant only for love.<br>Still more they taught her,<br>Still more they brought her-<br>Till they gave her the world for a harp one day,<br>And they bade her string it-<br>They bade her ring it,<br>While the stars all wondered to hear her play.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>She touched the strings in a master fashion,<br>She uttered the cry of a world's despair.<br>Its long-hid secret, its pent-up passion,<br>She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.<br>For ah! the heart of her,<br>That was the art of her,<br>Great with the feeling that makes men kin.<br>Art unapproachable,<br>Art all uncoachable,<br>Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The earth turns ever an ear unheeding<br>To the sorrows of art, as it cries for more:<br>And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding<br>And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.<br>She knew the trend of it,<br>She knew the end of it.<br>Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.<br>Bound to the altar<br>Of art, could she falter?<br>Then came a silence-the music was still.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it<br>In waves unbroken it circles the earth:<br>And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit<br>A gleam from the center that gave her birth.<br>Still is the fame of her<br>Felt in the name of her.<br>But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain.<br>No hand has taken it,<br>No hand can waken it-<br>For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ella+Wheeler+Wilcox">Ella Wheeler Wilcox</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384346" data-title="Clara Morris (Written for a Benefit Given Mrs. Morris) de Ella Wheeler Wilcox" data-description="The Radiant Ruler of Mystic Regions
Where souls of artists are fitted for birth,
Gathered together their lovely legions
And fashioned a woman to shine on earth.
They bathed her in splendor
They made her tender:
They gave her a nature both sweet an..."></div>
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