August
You might assume a poem titled “August” would have something nice to say about the dog days of summer. But Helen Hunt Jackson, who wrote it under her pen name, “H. H.,” doesn’t seem too thrilled. All “sweet sounds” have ceased, leaving only the dull hum of insects. (Perhaps the crowds have gone on vacation?) Flowers still bloom, but she sees past this display of bounty; soon enough, they’ll shrivel. “Pathetic,” she writes.