Sonnet: - XIX.

How my heart yearns towards my friends at home! Poor suffering souls, whose lives are like the trees, Bent, crushed, and broken in the storm of life! A whirlwind of existence seems to roam Through some poor hearts continually. These Have neither rest nor pause; one day is rife With tempest, and another dashed with gloom; And the few rays of light that might illume Their thorny path are drenched with tearful rain. Yet these pure souls live not their lives in vain; For they become as spiritual guides And lights to others; rising with the tides Of their full being into higher spheres, Brighter and brighter still through all the coming years.