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About this poet

Ella Higginson was born around 1862 in Council Grove, Kansas. A poet as well as a novelist, short story writer, and nonfiction writer, Higginson was the author of the poetry collections The Vanishing Race (C. M. Sherman, 1911), The Voice of April-Land and Other Poems (The Macmillan Company, 1903), Four-Leaf Clover: A Little Book of Verse (Edson & Irish, 1901), When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898), and A Bunch of Western Clover (Edson & Irish, 1894), as well as two short story collections, a novel, and an Alaskan travel book. In 1931, she was named the poet laureate of Washington State. She died in Bellingham, Washington, on December 27, 1940.

The Passing of the Hours

The hours steal by with still, unasking lips—
     So lightly that I cannot hear their tread;
And softly touch me with their finger-tips
     To find if I be dreaming, or be dead.

And yet however still their flight may be,
     Their ceaseless going weights my heart with tears;
These touches will have wrought deep scars on me—
     When the light hours have worn to heavy years.

This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.

This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.

Ella HIgginson

Ella Higginson

Ella Higginson was born around 1862 in Council Grove, Kansas. A poet as well as a novelist, short story writer, and nonfiction writer, Higginson was the author of the poetry collections The Vanishing Race (C. M.

by this poet

poem

Lord God, the winter has been sweet and brief
     In this fair land;
For us the budded willow and the leaf,
     The peaceful strand.

For us the silver nights and golden days,
     The violet mist;
The pearly clouds pierced with vibrating rays
     Of amethyst.

poem

I know a place where the sun is like gold,
     And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
     Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
     And one is for love, you know,
And God put another in for luck

poem
Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist
   The sun goes down—a crimson wheel—
And like an opal burns the sea
   That once was cold as steel.

With pomp of purple, gold and red,
   Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn…
But thou can’st never bring, O Sun,
   The Christmas that is gone!