XXXV.

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, A treasure all undreamt of,--as the night Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll Unheard by day. It seem’d as if her breast Had hoarded energies, till then suppress’d Almost with pain, and bursting from control, And finding first that hour their pathway free: Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be!