By C.B. Langston
From whence the rapture which I feel
Through all my nature rushing?
The heart’s quick beat? the senses reel?
The cheeks’ enkindled blushing?
Like the bright glowing of the east,
When morn appears, hope gilds my breast.
Where is the cloud whose threat’ning gloom
Cast its deep shadow o’er me?
Masking the sunshine of my home?
Dark’ning the path before me?
The trembling tongue, the anxious fear?
The rending sigh–the bursting tear?
I knelt–my prayer was still and brief,
Like burning lava glowing;
The fiery current of my grief,
A silent fountain flowing;
Parched were my quiv’ring lips, and cleft–
“Thy will be done,” I thought, and wept!
Hope! gentle hope! then from my heart
Rose quickly heav’nward springing;
Like a fair bird with wings apart,
Amid the tempest singing;
Soft o’er my mind its music stole,
And soothed the anguish of my soul!
A CALENDAR OF SONNETS: AUGUST
By Helen Hunt Jackson
Silence again. The glorious symphony
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects’ aimless industry.
Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry
Of color to conceal her swift decrease.
Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day doth fleece
A blossom, and lay bare her poverty.
Poor middle-aged summer! Vain this show!
Whole fields of Golden-Rod cannot offset
One meadow with a single violet;
And well the singing thrush and lily know,
Spite of all artifice which her regret
Can deck in splendid guise, their time to go!