Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Poems of Cheer

mystic border-land

Wilcox treats Art as a literal country you cross into—not a metaphor for creativity, but a physical realm with geography. This spatial literalism runs through the whole poem.

::I step across the mystic border-land,
::And look upon the wonder-world of Art.
::How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!
::And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!
::The winding paths that lead up to the heights
::Are polished by the footsteps of the great.

footsteps of the great

The paths are "polished" by use—worn smooth like marble stairs in old cathedrals. She's imagining the physical traces left by artists who came before.

::The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
::The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon
::Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.
::Here are no sounds of discord--no profane
::Or senseless gossip of unworthy things -

songs of chisels

Sculptors' chisels "sing" as they work—Wilcox synesthetically hears visual art being made. Notice she lists tools (chisels, pens, brushes) not finished works.

::Only the songs of chisels and of pens,
::Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains
::Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
::Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief
::For any day or object left behind -
::For time is counted precious, and herein
::Is such complete abandonment of Self
::That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance

tears turn into rainbows

Optical fact: tears refract light into spectra. She's claiming grief in service of art literally transforms into beauty, not just metaphorically.

::The beauty of the land where all is fair.
::Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
::Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here
::Where the great artists of the world have trod -

genius-crowned aristocrats

Great artists form an aristocracy—not of birth but of talent. This sets up the final lines where she'd rather be a peasant in Art's kingdom than royalty outside it.

::The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
::Only the singer of a little song;
::Yet loving Art with such a mighty love
::I hold it greater to have won a place
::Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,

make my grave

She wants to die inside Art's border, even at its edge. Better to be buried as art's lowest citizen than live as royalty in the "outer world of greed."

::Than in the outer world of greed and gain
::To sit upon a royal throne and reign.
Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

Wilcox's Popular Poetry Problem

CONTEXT Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919) was wildly popular but critically dismissed. Her collections sold hundreds of thousands of copies—extraordinary for poetry—but serious critics called her work shallow sentiment. She knew this. "Poems of Cheer" is from her 1888 collection *Poems of Passion*, which made her famous and suspect simultaneously.

This poem is anxious self-justification. She calls herself "only the singer of a little song" while surrounded by "genius-crowned aristocrats"—the canonical poets who get respect she doesn't. The whole elaborate metaphor of Art-as-country exists to make one argument: even minor placement in the realm of Art beats major success in the commercial world.

Notice the defensive framing: "Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land. / Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here?" She's pre-empting criticism by claiming humility, but the poem's real move is in the final lines. She'd rather have "a place / Just on the fair land's edge" than "sit upon a royal throne" outside Art's borders. Translation: I know I'm not Keats, but I'm still a real poet, not a hack.

The poem appeared in collections marketed as uplifting verse for ordinary readers—exactly the kind of popular success that made critics doubt her seriousness. She's caught: her audience wants accessible emotion ("Poems of Cheer"), but accessibility itself marks her as minor. This poem tries to have it both ways.

The Geography of Genius

Wilcox builds her metaphor with obsessive consistency. Art isn't just like a country—it has borders you cross, valleys and hills you navigate, mountain peaks "very near to God," paths "polished by the footsteps of the great." She never breaks character. Even grief becomes literal weather: "tears turn into rainbows."

Watch how she populates this landscape. It's not quiet—it's full of working sounds: "songs of chisels and of pens, / Of busy brushes." Artists aren't contemplating; they're making noise with tools. The "ecstatic strains / Of souls surcharged with music" suggests artists so full of creation they overflow. "Surcharged" is an electrical term—overloaded, sparking.

The mountain peaks where artists "talked with Him, and with the angels walked" echo Moses on Sinai. Great art = direct communion with God, available only to "the chosen few." This is Romantic genius theory at full volume: artists as prophets, art as sacred, the general public excluded from the heights.

But Wilcox places herself at "the fair land's edge"—inside the border but far from the peaks. It's a careful position. She claims citizenship in Art's country (I belong here) while disclaiming greatness (I'm nowhere near the mountains). The edge is enough. Being inside Art's borders, even barely, matters more than any success in "the outer world of greed and gain."