Explore "A Calendar of Sonnets" by Helen Hunt Jackson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O month whose promise and fulfilment blend, / And burst in one! it seems the earth can store / In all her roomy house no treasure more; / Of all her wealth no farthing have to spend / On fruit, when once this stintless flowering end. / And yet no tiniest flower shall fall before / It hath made ready at its hidden core / Its tithe of seed, which we may count and tend / Till harvest. Joy of blossomed love, for thee / Seems it no fairer thing can yet have birth? / No room is left for deeper ecstasy? / Watch well if seeds grow strong, to scatter free / Germs for thy future summers on the earth. / A joy which is but joy soon comes to dearth.