Explore "Progression" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.