Ella Wheeler Wilcox

“ That was the art of her.
Great with the feeling that makes men kin.
Art unapproachable,
Art all uncoachable,
Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.
The earth turns ever an ear unheeding
To the sorrows of art, as it cries ‘encore.’
And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding,
And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore. ”