June 1849
Ella Wheeler's parents, Marcus and Sarah Pratt Wheeler, came from Thetford, Vermont, in June, 1849, with their three children. Ella was not born until over a year later. The Wheelers rented a house on the present County A at Scharine Corner east of Janesville. Then it was the busy Mineral Point-Milwaukee Road. 

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. 

There's a gaping rent in the curtain 
    That longs for a needle and thread, 
 There's a garment that ought to be finished, 
    And a book that wants to be read. 
 There's a letter that needs to be answered, 
    There are clothes to fold away, 
 And I know these tasks are waiting, 
    And ought to be done to-day. 

 But how can I mend the curtain, 
    While watching this silvery cloud, 
 And how can I finish th' garment, 
    When the robin calls so loud. 
 And the whispering trees are telling 
    Such stories above my head, 
 That I can but lie and listen, 
    And the book is all unread. 

 If I try to write the letter, 
    I am sure one half the words 
 Will be in the curious language 
    Of my chattering friends, the birds. 
 The lilacs bloom in the sunshine, 
    The roses nod and smile, 
 And the clothes that ought to be folded 
    And ironed, must wait awhile. 

 I lie in the locust shadows, 
    And gaze at the summer sky, 
 Bidding the cares and toubles 
    And trials of life pass by. 
 The beautiful locust blossoms 
    Are falling about my feet, 
 And the dreamy air is laden 
    With their odors rare and sweet. 

 The honey-bees hum in the clover, 
    The grasses rise and fall, 
 The robin stops and listens, 
    As he hears the brown thrush call. 
 The humming-bird sings to me softly, 
    The butterfly flits away-- 
 Oh what could be sweeter than living, 
    This beautiful summer day! 

                    1869

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox 
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873.

               I

   Sailing away on a summer sea, 
      Out of the bleak March weather; 
   Drifting away for a loaf and play, 
      Just you and I together; 
   And it's good-bye worry and good-bye hurry 
   And never a care have we; 
   With the sea below and the sun above 
   And nothing to do but dream and love, 
      Sailing away together. 

   Sailing away from the grim old town 
      And tasks the town calls duty; 
   Sailing away from walls of grey 
      To a land of bloom and beauty, 
   And it's good-bye to letters from our lessers and our betters, 
   To the cold world's smile or its frown. 
   We sail away on a sunny track 
   To find the summer and bring it back 
      And love is our only duty. 

               II

   Afloat on a sea of passion 
      Without a compass or chart, 
   But the glow of your eye shows the sun is high, 
      By the sextant of my heart. 
   I know we are nearing the tropics 
      By the languor that round us lies, 
   And the smile on your mouth says the course is south 
      And the port is Paradise. 

   We have left grey skies behind us, 
      We sail under skies of blue; 
   You are off with me on lovers' sea, 
      And I am away with you. 
   We have not a single sorrow, 
      And I have but one fear-- 
   That my lips may miss one offered kiss 
      From the mouth that is smiling near. 

   There is no land of winter; 
      There is no world of care; 
   There is bloom and mirth all over the earth, 
      And love, love everywhere. 
   Our boat is the barque of Pleasure, 
      And whatever port we sight 
   The touch of your hand will make the land 
      The Harbor of Pure Delight. 

Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
London: Gay & Hancock, 1911. 

   When you go away, my friend, 
      When you say your last good-bye, 
   Then the summer time will end, 
      And the winter will be nigh. 

   Though the green grass decks the heather, 
      And the birds sing all the day, 
   There will be no summer weather 
      After you have gone away. 

   When I look into your eyes, 
      I shall thrill with deepest pain, 
   Thinking that beneath the skies 
      I may never look again. 

   You will feel a moment's sorrow, 
      I shall feel a lasting grief; 
   You forgetting on the morrow, 
      I to mourn with no relief. 

   When we say the last sad word, 
      And you are no longer near, 
   And the winds and all the birds 
      Cannot keep the summer here, 

   Life will lose its full completeness--- 
      Lose it not for you, but me; 
   All the beauty and the sweetness 
      Each can hold, I shall not see. 

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox 
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell,
1917. 

She's the jauntiest of creatures, she's the daintiest of misses, 
   With her pretty patent leathers or her alligator ties, 
With her eyes inviting glances and her lips inviting kisses, 
   As she wanders by the ocean or strolls under country skies. 

She's a captivating dresser, and her parasols are stunning, 
   Her fads will-take your breath away, her hats are dreams of style; 
She is not so very bookish, but with repartee and punning 
   She can set the savants laughing and make even dudelets smile. 

She has no attacks of talent, she is not a stage-struck maiden; 
   She is wholly free from hobbies, and she dreams of no "career;" 
She is mostly gay and happy, never sad or care-beladen, 
   Though she sometimes sighs a little if a gentleman is near. 

She's a sturdy little walker and she braves all kinds of weather, 
   And when the rain or fog or mist drive rival crimps a-wreck, 
Her fluffy hair goes curling like a kinked-up ostrich feather 
   Around her ears and forehead and the white nape of her neck. 

She is like a fish in water; she can handle reins and racket; 
   From head to toe and finger-tips she's thoroughly alive; 
When she goes promenading in a most distracting jacket, 
   The rustle round her feet suggests how laundresses may thrive. 

She can dare the wind and sunshine in the most bravado manner, 
   And after hours of sailing she has merely cheeks of rose; 
Old Sol himself seems smitten and at most will only tan her, 
   Though to everybody else he gives a danger-signal nose. 

She's a trifle sentimental, and she's fond of admiration, 
   And she sometimes flirts a little in the season's giddy whirl; 
But win her if you can, sir, she may prove your life's salvation, 
   For an angel masquerading oft is she, the summer girl. 

Kingdom of love and How Salvator won by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
Chicago, W.B. Conkey company [1902]. 

   The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast 
   And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give rest 
   To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine 
   On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine. 
   Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth 
   Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth." 

   The beach swarmed with bathers--to be more exact, 
   Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact, 
   Many beautiful women bathed but in the light 
   Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight, 
   Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching arms 
   They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charms 
   And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour, 
   The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flower 
   With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath, 
   Roger paused in confusion, because in his path 
   Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent 
   On the form of a woman who leisurely went 
   From her bathing house down to the beach. "There she goes," 
   Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes 
   With her whole ample weight. "What, the one with red hair? 
   Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare." 
   A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned, 
   Look! there is La Travers, the one with the red 
   Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here, 
   And at present the topic of talk at the Pier." 
   Roger followed their glances in time to behold 
   For a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold, 
   And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white. 
   Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight. 

   It was half an hour afterward, possibly more, 
   As Roger swam farther and farther from shore, 
   With new life in his limbs and new force in his brain, 
   That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain. 
   Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a wave 
   Shone a woman's white face. "Keep your courage; be brave; 
   I am coming," he shouted. "Turn over and float." 
   His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a boat 
   Through the billows. Six overhand strokes brought him close 
   To the woman, who lay like a wilted white rose 
   On the waves. "Now, be careful," he cried; "lay your hand 
   Well up on my shoulder; my arms, understand, 
   Must be free; do not touch them--please follow my wishes, 
   Unless you are anxious to fatten the fishes." 
   The woman obeyed him. "You need not fear me," 
   She replied, "I am wholly at home in the sea.