August 10

True, faithful action only is the life,

The grapes for which we feel the pruning knife.

Thoughts are but leaves; they fall and feed the ground.

The holy seasons, swift and slow, go round;

The ministering leaves return, fresh, large, and rife—

But fresher, larger, more thoughts to the brain:—

Farewell, my dove!—come back, hope-laden, through the rain.