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Helen Hunt Jackson
American
October 18, 1831
Writer
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Than
Less
Words
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Know
Lands
Lit
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Best
Love
He
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
His
Each
Name
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Morning
Which
Too
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote faster than I would write a letter - two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Morning
Than
Would
But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Good
Love
Things
When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.
Helen Hunt Jackson
Tags:
Men
Every
Any
