Explore "Sonnets" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Not through this door of elemental calm, / Patient, wet woodland, resting after rain, / Brooding brown fields that wait the sleeping grain -- / Not through this door may the wrecked spirit's balm -- / Come in and take possession. There's a psalm / Nature has crooned to weariness and pain, / Easing the tumult of the world-worn brain, / Sweet, wholesome mother of the open palm.
But the disastrous heart cries out for men, / Strife where the fight is reddest. Verily / Peace comes with fighting with the strength of ten, / Here where the world is young, with naught to see.