Art and Heart
Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover,It is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.
Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it,And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it.
Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us,Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us.
Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure,Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure.
So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goeswith the saying;And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back ofthe praying.
It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealingWith a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling.
And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming,Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats underthe rhyming.
And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover,That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.
Words in this poem
- heartless a.
- Without a heart.
- throb v. i.
- To beat, or pulsate, with more than usual force or rapidity; to beat in consequence of agitation; to palpitate; -- said of the heart, pulse, etc. [OE. ; of uncertain origin; cf. Russ. trepete a trembling, and E. trepidation.]
- rounding a.
- Round or nearly round; becoming round; roundish.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Art and Heart is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems of Passion, Project Gutenberg ebook #16776; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Art and Heart, in Poems of Passion (1883), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #16776, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/wilcox-passion/art-and-heart.html, id L22183.
Form and metre
Art and Heart is 19 lines in 8 stanzas. The metre is fourteeners, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 71%).
See other poems in fourteeners.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 2 AA itA · itA
- 3 AA usA · usA
- 4 AA measureA · pleasureA
- 5 -A-A goes · sayingA · of · prayingA
- 6 AA stealingA · feelingA
- 7 A-A chimingA · under · rhymingA
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against fourteeners. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover, | 15 | ·/˘··········/˘ |
| It is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over. | 12 | ············ |
| Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it, | 14 | ····/˘····/··· |
| And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it. | 16 | ··/˘·······/˘··· |
| Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us, | 15 | ·˘/·/˘·/˘·/˘··· |
| Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us. | 14 | ·········/˘··· |
| Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure, | 17 | ··/˘········/˘·/˘ |
| Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure. | 16 | ············/˘/˘ |
| So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes | 14 | ··········/˘·· |
| with the saying; | 4 | ··/˘ |
| And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of | 15 | ···········/˘·· |
| the praying. | 3 | ·/˘ |
| It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealing | 15 | ····/˘····/··/˘ |
| With a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling. | 16 | ·····/······/˘/˘ |
| And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming, | 16 | ·····/˘··/˘···/˘ |
| Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under | 13 | ············· |
| the rhyming. | 3 | ·/˘ |
| And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover, | 15 | ·····˘/······/˘ |
| That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over. | 13 | ············· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.