 Section 1 of A Calendar of Sonnets by Helen Hunt Jackson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org January by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Oh winter, frozen pulse and heart of fire, What losses there's who from thy kingdom turn dismayed, And think thy snow a sculptured urn of death? For sooner in mid-summer tire the streams than under ice. June could not hire her roses to forego the strength they learn in sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn the bridges thou dost lay, Where men desire in vain to build. Oh heart, when love's sun goes to 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. February by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Still are 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 rite of expiation For the old years ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will. Fit days, air yet the spring rains blur the sight, Air yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed, The 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. March by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Month which the warring ancients strangely styled the month of war, As if in their fierce ways were any month of peace, In thy rough days I find no war in nature, Though the wild winds clash and clang, And broken boughs are piled at feet of writhing trees. The violets raise their heads without a fright, Without a maze, and sleep through all the din, As sleep's a child. And he who watches well may well discern sweet 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 bear Annunciation lilies for the year. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. April by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist No days such honoured days as these, When yet fair Aphrodite reigned, Men seeking wide for some fair thing, Which should forever bide on earth, Her beauteous memory to set in fitting frame That no age could forget, Her name in lovely April's name did hide, And leave it there, Eternally allied to 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 birth of spring anemones, In Palestine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. May by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Oh, month, when they who love, Must love and wed, Were one to go to worlds where may is not, And seek to tell the memories he had brought From earth of thee, What were most fitly said? I know not if the rosy showers Shed from apple-bows, Or if the soft green rot in fields, Or if the robins call be fraught the most, With thy delight. Perhaps they read the best Who in the ancient time did say, Thou wart the sacred month unto the old, No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day, So subtly sweet as memories, Which unfold in aged hearts, Which in thy sunshine lie, To sun themselves once more before they die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. June by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Oh, 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 have 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 farthing 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. July by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Some flowers are withered And some joys have died. The garden reeks with an East Indian scent From beds where jilly flowers Stand weak and spent. The white heat pales the skies From side to side, But instill 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 share their dews. The lily feels no thirst, no dread. Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head. She drinks of living waters and keeps fair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. August by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Silence again. The glorious symphony, half-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 colour To conceal her swift decrees, 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 Despite of all artifice Which her regret can deck in splendid guise, They're time to go. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. September by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Oh, golden month, how high thy gold is heaped The yellow birch leaves shine like bright coins Strong on wands, the chestnuts yellow penins Tongue to every wind its harvest challenge Steeped in yellow, still life-fields Where wheat was reaped, and yellow still The corn sheaves stacked among the yellow gourds Which from the earth have wrung her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped the purple grape Last thing to ripen, late by very reason Of its precious cost. Oh heart, remember, Vintage's are lost if grapes do not For freezing night-dew's weight. Think, while thou sunnest thyself In joy's estate, may hap thou Cance to not ripen without frost. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. October by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist The month of carnival of all the year When nature lets the wild earth go its way And spend whole seasons on a single day. The springtime holds her white and purple deer. October lavish, flaunts them far and near. The summer charrily her reds doth lay Like jewels on her costliest array. October scornful burns them on a beer. The winter hoards his pearls of frost In sign of kingdom. Whiter pearls than winter new Or empress war in Egypt's ancient line. October, feasting neath her dome of blue, Drinks at a single draught, Slow filtered through sun-shiny air, Has in a tingling wine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. November by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist This is the treacherous month When autumn days with summer's voice Come bearing summer's gifts. Beguiled, the pale, downtrodden aster Lifts her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze makes moist once more The seer and dusty ways. And creeping through where dead leaves lie In drifts, the violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts air-night An icy shroud, which morning's rays Will idly shine upon and slowly melt. Too late to bid the violet live again. The treachery, at last too late, Is plain. Bear are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt, What joy sufficient hath November felt, What profit from the violet's day of pain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. December by Helen Hunt Jackson Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes of 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 dreamed Might linger on the road, Or one who deemed his message hostile Gently for their sakes who listened Might reveal it by degrees. We gird against the cold of winter wind Our loins now, with mighty bands of sleep In longest, darkest nights Take rest and ease and every shortening day As shadows creep o'er the brief noon tide Fresh surprises find. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And End of A Calendar of Sonnets by Helen Hunt Jackson Thank you for listening. Wishing you a very happy year.