Edith Wharton

(24 January 1862 – 11 August 1937 / New York City / United States)

Edith Wharton Poems

1. Two Backgrounds 3/20/2012
2. The Young Dead -new- 8/31/2015
3. Orpheus 4/20/2010
4. You And You 4/20/2010
5. The Torch-Bearer 3/20/2012
6. The One Grief 4/20/2010
7. With The Tide 4/20/2010
8. The Old Pole Star 4/20/2010
9. Wants 4/20/2010
10. The Last Giustianini 4/20/2010
11. The Sonnet 4/20/2010
12. Survival 4/20/2010
13. Some Busy Hands… 4/20/2010
14. The Bread Of Angels 4/20/2010
15. The Tomb Of Ilaria Giunigi 4/20/2010
16. The Parting Day 4/20/2010
17. Uses 4/20/2010
18. The Comrade 4/20/2010
19. The Eumenides 4/20/2010
20. Phaedra 4/20/2010
21. Summer Afternoon (Bodiam Castle, Sussex) 4/20/2010
22. Non Dolet! 4/20/2010
23. Ogrin The Hermit 4/20/2010
24. The Mortal Lease 4/20/2010
25. Vesalius In Zante 4/20/2010
26. Mould And Vase [greek Pottery Of Arezzo.] 4/20/2010
27. Patience 4/20/2010
28. Moonrise Over Tyringham 4/20/2010
29. All Saints 4/20/2010
30. Margaret Of Cortona 4/20/2010
31. Experience 4/20/2010
32. Artemis To Actaeon 4/20/2010
33. Aeropagus 4/20/2010
34. Jade 4/20/2010
35. Euryalus 4/20/2010
36. La Vierge Au Donateur 4/20/2010
37. Mona Lisa 4/20/2010
38. A Hunting Song 4/20/2010
39. All Souls 4/20/2010
40. Life 4/20/2010
Best Poem of Edith Wharton

A Failure

(She Speaks.)


I MEANT to be so strong and true!
The world may smile and question, When?
But what I might have been to you
I cannot be to other men.
Just one in twenty to the rest,
And all in all to you alone, -
This was my dream; perchance 'tis best
That this, like other dreams, is flown.


For you I should have been so kind,
So prompt my spirit to control,
To win fresh vigor for my mind,
And purer beauties for my soul;
Beneath your eye I might have grown
To that divine, ideal height,
Which, mating wholly with your own,
Our equal ...

Read the full of A Failure

The Young Dead

Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
All that they were, and might become, that we
With tired eyes should watch this perfect sea
Re-weave its patterning of silver wave
Round scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.
No more shall any rose along the way,
The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,
Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,
Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,

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