'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.
In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.
Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.
And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.
The Psalms of Pentecost
-
In the traditional Roman Divine Office, the only Hours which change their
Psalms according to the specific feast day are Matins and Vespers. [1] On
the maj...
22 hours ago
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