A Calendar of Sonnets By Helen Jackson 1886, January O winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire, What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turnDismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urnOf death! Far sooner in midsummer tireThe streams than under ice. June could not hireHer roses to forego the strength they learnIn sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burnThe bridges thou dost lay where men desireIn vain to build. O Heart, when Love's sun goesTo northward, and the sounds of singing cease, Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace. Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose. Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows, The winter is the winter's own release. February. Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are the days when ancients held a riteOf expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will:Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greedThe ardent summer's joy to have and taste;Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed, To reckon clear the new life's sterner need;Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed! March Month which the warring ancients strangely styledThe month of war, --as if in their fierce waysWere any month of peace!--in thy rough daysI find no war in Nature, though the wildWinds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piledAt feet of writhing trees. The violets raiseTheir heads without affright, without amaze, And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child. And he who watches well may well discernSweet expectation in each living thing. Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn;In secret joy makes ready for the spring;And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bearAnnunciation lilies for the year. April No days such honored days as these! When yetFair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wideFor some fair thing which should forever bideOn earth, her beauteous memory to setIn fitting frame that no age could forget, Her name in lovely April's name did hide, And leave it there, eternally alliedTo all the fairest flowers Spring did beget. And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth, Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth, A holier symbol still in seal and sign, Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine, When Christ ascended, in the time of birthOf spring anemones, in Palestine. May O month when they who love must love and wed!Were one to go to worlds where May is naught, And seek to tell the memories he had broughtFrom earth of thee, what were most fitly said?I know not if the rosy showers shedFrom apple-boughs, or if the soft green wroughtIn fields, or if the robin's call be fraughtThe most with thy delight. Perhaps they readThee best who in the ancient time did sayThou wert the sacred month unto the old:No blossom blooms upon thy brightest daySo subtly sweet as memories which unfoldIn aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie, To sun themselves once more before they die. June O month whose promise and fulfilment blend, And burst in one! it seems the earth can storeIn all her roomy house no treasure more;Of all her wealth no farthing have to spendOn fruit, when once this stintless flowering end. And yet no tiniest flower shall fall beforeIt hath made ready at its hidden coreIts tithe of seed, which we may count and tendTill harvest. Joy of blossomed love, for theeSeems it no fairer thing can yet have birth?No room is left for deeper ecstasy?Watch well if seeds grow strong, to scatter freeGerms for thy future summers on the earth. A joy which is but joy soon comes to dearth. July Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;The garden reeks with an East Indian scentFrom beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;The white heat pales the skies from side to side;But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content, Like starry blooms on a new firmament, White lilies float and regally abide. In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;The lily does not feel their brazen glare. In vain the pallid clouds refuse to shareTheir dews; the lily feels no thirst, no dread. Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;She drinks of living waters and keeps fair. August Silence again. The glorious symphonyHath 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 blazonryOf color to conceal her swift decrease. Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day doth fleeceA blossom, and lay bare her poverty. Poor middle-agèd summer! Vain this show!Whole fields of golden-rod cannot offsetOne meadow with a single violet;And well the singing thrush and lily know, Spite of all artifice which her regretCan deck in splendid guise, their time to go! September O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strungOn wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongueTo every wind its harvest challenge. SteepedIn yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked amongThe yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrungHer utmost gold. To highest boughs have leapedThe purple grape, --last thing to ripen, lateBy very reason of its precious cost. O Heart, remember, vintages are lostIf grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait. Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost! October The month of carnival of all the year, When Nature lets the wild earth go its wayAnd spend whole seasons on a single day. The spring-time holds her white and purple dear;October, lavish, flaunts them far and near;The summer charily her reds doth layLike jewels on her costliest array;October, scornful, burns them on a bier. The winter hoards his pearls of frost in signOf kingdom: whiter pearls than winter knew, Or Empress wore, in Egypt's ancient line, October, feasting 'neath her dome of blue, Drinks at a single draught, slow filtered throughSunshiny air, as in a tingling wine! November This is the treacherous month when autumn daysWith summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts. Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster liftsHer head and blooms again. The soft, warm hazeMakes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns. Snow noiseless siftsEre night, an icy shroud, which morning's raysWill idly shine upon and slowly melt, Too late to bid the violet live again. The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt. What joy sufficient hath November felt?What profit from the violet's day of pain? December The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakesOf water 'neath the summer sunshine gleamed:Far fairer than when placidly it streamed, The brook its frozen architecture makes, And under bridges white its swift way takes. Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamedMight linger on the road; or one who deemedHis message hostile gently for their sakesWho listened might reveal it by degrees. We gird against the cold of winter windOur loins now with mighty bands of sleep, In longest, darkest nights take rest and ease, And every shortening day, as shadows creepO'er the brief noontide, fresh surprises find.