Explore "Sweet Hours" by Carmen Sylva on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
If green the corn and burning the volcano, / Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice, / Why shall the heart not love and burn in waving / Expectant green, or rising flames of hot / Enthusiasm, or burst into a torrent / Of wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned? / Behold! The field is green, the seed has risen / That thou hast thrown into these aching furrows, / Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrow / And watered with the wells of tears, that dropped / Upon each grain and flowed through all the furrows.
They see the snow upon thine head, but not / The corn and not the threat'ning furnace of / Thy soul. They think it is extinct, they hope / Thou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmth / They feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire, / That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers.