And the smile that is worth the praises of earth is the smile

The words of Ella Wheeler Wilcox—“And the smile that is worth the praises of earth is the smile that shines through tears”—carry within them the fragrance of ancient wisdom, a truth carved not upon stone but upon the human heart. They speak of the strength that glows beneath sorrow, of a radiance born not in ease but in trial. A smile born in comfort is fair, but a smile that rises from the ashes of grief is a flame against the darkness, a light that guides others to courage. Such a smile is not a mask but a triumph, the soul’s victory over despair.

This teaching is old as the earth itself. The ancients knew it well: that joy untested is but a fleeting shadow, while joy that has walked through suffering becomes eternal. When the heart bleeds, yet the lips still curve upward, it is as though the spirit proclaims, “I am greater than my pain.” And what is nobler than this? The gods themselves are said to admire mortals who endure with dignity, who, while wounded, yet offer warmth to others. For this is the smile that is “worth the praises of earth”—not empty merriment, but courage clad in gentleness.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, whose life was steeped in sorrow. He lost his mother at a tender age, and later, his beloved son Willie. The weight of the Civil War bent his shoulders with grief untold. Yet, when he met with soldiers or spoke to weary citizens, it is said that he bore a smile through tears, a weary but steady kindness that lifted others from despair. His was no shallow laughter; it was a light born from inner storms, a lantern lit by resilience. That smile, more than speeches or proclamations, comforted a nation staggering in anguish.

Wilcox’s words remind us, then, that the smile of endurance surpasses the smile of delight. For when one smiles amidst abundance, the earth nods politely; but when one smiles amidst desolation, the earth itself stops to honor such strength. The latter smile is a testament: it declares that the soul has not been conquered. It tells the world that though shadows fall, the spirit still believes in dawn. This is why it is “worth the praises of earth”—for it embodies the heroic and the divine in human form.

Let us not imagine that to smile through tears is to deny grief. No, it is to walk with grief and yet not let it consume the heart. It is to acknowledge sorrow’s weight and still say, “I will rise.” The tears water the seed, and the smile becomes the blossom. Just as the lotus emerges from mud, unstained and serene, so too does the radiant smile arise from suffering. Thus, the ancients would say: sorrow refines the soul, but hope exalts it.

What lesson, then, do we gather? That each of us, in our own hour of trial, must seek to let hope triumph over despair. When sorrow comes—and it surely will—we must allow tears their course, but not surrender entirely to them. Let the face soften into a smile, however faint, for in that moment the heart declares its strength. In so doing, we not only heal ourselves, but offer healing to others, who see in our endurance a map for their own.

To live this teaching, one might begin with simple acts: when hardship presses, pause and breathe; remember that grief is shared by all humanity; and if you can, lift your eyes, soften your lips, and gift the world with that rare smile. It may not banish your burden, but it will lighten it, and it may ignite courage in one who watches you. Thus the cycle of resilience continues, and the earth is made brighter.

So let the voice of Wilcox echo through your spirit: smile, even through tears. For such a smile is not weakness but valor; not denial, but transcendence. It is the song of the heart refusing to be broken. And when you smile thus, the praises of earth—silent or spoken—will follow you, for you have given the world not mere laughter, but the flame of unyielding hope.