Poems of Experience/Progression

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

To each progressive soul there comes a day
   When all things that have pleased and satisfied
Grow flavourless, the springs of joy seem dried.
   No more the waters of youth’s fountains play;
Yet out of reach, tiptoeing as they may,
   The more mature and higher pleasures hide.
Life, like a careless nurse, fails to provide
   New toys for those the soul has cast away.

Upon a strange land’s border all alone,
   Awhile it stands dismayed and desolate.
Nude too, since its old garments are outgrown;
   Till clothed with strength befitting its estate,
It grasps at length those raptures that are known
   To souls who learn to labour, and to wait.