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Best Famous Helen Hunt Jackson Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Helen Hunt Jackson poems. This is a select list of the best famous Helen Hunt Jackson poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Helen Hunt Jackson poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Helen Hunt Jackson poems.

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Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

Octobers Bright Blue Weather

 O suns and skies and clouds of June, 
And flowers of June together, 
Ye cannot rival for one hour 
October's bright blue weather;

When loud the bumblebee makes haste, 
Belated, thriftless vagrant, 
And goldenrod is dying fast, 
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When gentians roll their fingers tight 
To save them for the morning, 
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs 
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie 
In piles like jewels shining, 
And redder still on old stone walls 
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely wayside things 
Their white-winged seeds are sowing, 
And in the fields still green and fair, 
Late aftermaths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks, 
In idle golden freighting, 
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush 
Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts, 
By twos and twos together, 
And count like misers, hour by hour, 
October's bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June, Count all your boasts together, Love loveth best of all the year October's bright blue weather.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |


 he drank wine all night of the 
28th, and he kept thinking of her: 
the way she walked and talked and loved 
the way she told him things that seemed true 
but were not, and he knew the color of each 
of her dresses 
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of 
each heel 
as well as the leg shaped by it.
and she was out again and whe he came home,and she'd come back with that special stink again, and she did she came in at 3 a.
m in the morning filthy like a dung eating swine and he took out a butchers knife and she screamed backing into the roominghouse wall still pretty somehow in spite of love's reek and he finished the glass of wine.
that yellow dress his favorite and she screamed again.
and he took up the knife and unhooked his belt and tore away the cloth before her and cut off his balls.
and carried them in his hands like apricots and flushed them down the toilet bowl and she kept screaming as the room became red GOD O GOD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? and he sat there holding 3 towels between his legs no caring now wether she lft or stayed wore yellow or green or anything at all.
and one hand holding and one hand lifting he poured another wine

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

My Strawberry

 O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause 
To reckon thee.
I ask what cause Set free so much of red from heats At core of earth, and mixed such sweets With sour and spice: what was that strength Which out of darkness, length by length, Spun all thy shining thread of vine, Netting the fields in bond as thine.
I see thy tendrils drink by sips From grass and clover's smiling lips; I hear thy roots dig down for wells, Tapping the meadow's hidden cells.
Whole generations of green things, Descended from long lines of springs, I see make room for thee to bide A quiet comrade by their side; I see the creeping peoples go Mysterious journeys to and fro, Treading to right and left of thee, Doing thee homage wonderingly.
I see the wild bees as they fare, Thy cups of honey drink, but spare.
I mark thee bathe and bathe again In sweet unclaendared spring rain.
I watch how all May has of sun Makes haste to have thy ripeness done, While all her nights let dews escape To set and cool thy perfect shape.
Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause To dream and seek thy hidden laws! I stretch my hand and dare to taste, In instant of delicious waste On single feast, all things that went To make the empire thou hast spent.

More great poems below...

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

To an Absent Lover

 That so much change should come when thou dost go, 
Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite.
The very house seems dark as when the light Of lamps goes out.
Each wonted thing doth grow So altered, that I wander to and fro Bewildered by the most familiar sight, And feel like one who rouses in the night From dream of ecstasy, and cannot know At first if he be sleeping or awake.
My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake Hath grown, dear one! Teach me to be more wise.
I blush for all my foolishness doth lack; I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes.
Teach me, dear one,--but first thou must come back!

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Dream

 Once a dream did weave a shade,
O'er my Angel-guarded bed.
That an Emmet lost it's way Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled wildered and forlorn Dark benighted travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke I heard her say.
O my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh.
Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.
Pitying I dropp'd a tear; But I saw a glow-worm near: Who replied.
What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night.
I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetles hum, Little wanderer hie thee home.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

New Years Morning

 Only a night from old to new! 
Only a night, and so much wrought! 
The Old Year's heart all weary grew, 
But said: The New Year rest has brought.
" The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down, As in a grave; but trusting, said: "The blossoms of the New Year's crown Bloom from the ashes of the dead.
" The Old Year's heart was full of greed; With selfishness it longed and ached, And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand All gifts in plenty shall return; True love it shall understand; By all y failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free, And find sweet pace where I leave strife.
" Only a night from old to new! Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do; No New Year miracles are wrought.
Always a night from old to new! Night and the healing balm of sleep! Each morn is New Year's morn come true, Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make Confession and resolve and prayer; All days are sacred days to wake New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new; Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old coem true; Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Calendar of Sonnets: November

 This is the treacherous month when autumn days 
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts Her head and blooms again.
The soft, warm haze Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns.
Snow noiseless sifts Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays Willidly shine upon and slowly melt, Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt? What profit from the violet's day of pain?

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Calendar of Sonnets: July

 Some flowers are withered and some joys have died; 
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent 
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent; 
The white heat pales the skies from side to side; 
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content, 
Like starry blooms on a new firmament, 
White lilies float and regally abide.
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed; The lily does not feel their brazen glare.
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share Their dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread.
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head; She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Calendar of Sonnets: September

 O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped! 
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung 
On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue 
To every wind its harvest challenge.
Steeped In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped; And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung Her utmost gold.
To highest boughs have leaped The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late By very reason of its precious cost.
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Calendar of Sonnets: May

 O Month when they who love must love and wed! 
Were one to go to worlds where May is naught, 
And seek to tell the memories he had brought 
From earth of thee, what were most fitly said? 
I know not if the rosy showers shed 
From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought 
In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught 
The most with thy delight.
Perhaps they read Thee best who in the ancient time did say Thou wert the sacred month unto the old: No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day So subtly sweet as memories which unfold In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie, To sun themselves once more before they die.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

My Tenants

 I never had a title-deed 
To my estate.
But little heed Eyes give to me, when I walk by My fields, to see who occupy.
Some clumsy men who lease and hire And cut my trees to feed their fire, Own all the land that I possess, And tax my tenants to distress.
And if I say I had been first, And, reaping, left for them the worst, That they were beggars at the hands Of dwellers on my royal lands, With idle laugh of passing scorn As unto words of madness born, They would reply I do not care; They cannot crowd the charméd air; They cannot touch the bonds I hold On all that they have bought and sold.
They can waylay my faithful bees, Who, lulled to sleep, with fatal ease, Are robbe.
Is one day's honey sweet Thus snatched? All summer round my feet In golden drifts from plumy wings, In shining drops on fragrant things Free gift, it came to me.
My corn, With burnished banners, morn by morn, Comes out to meet and honor me; The glittering ranks spread royally Far as I walk.
When hasty greed Tramples it down for food and seed, I, with a certain veiled delight, Hear half the crop is lost by blight.
Letter of the law these may fulfil, Plant where they like, slay what they will, Count up their gains and make them great; Nevertheless, the whole estate Always belongs to me and mine.
We are the only royal line.
And though I have no title-deed My tenants pay me royal heed When our sweet fields I wander by To see what strangers occupy.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

Crossed Threads

 The silken threads by viewless spinners spun, 
Which float so idly on the summer air, 
And help to make each summer morning fair, 
Shining like silver in the summer sun, 
Are caught by wayward breezes, one by one, 
Are blown to east and west and fastened there, 
Weaving on all the roads their sudden snare.
No sign which road doth safest, freest run, The wingèd insects know, that soar so gay To meet their death upon each summer day.
How dare we any human deed arraign; Attempt to recon any moment's cost; Or any pathway trust as safe and plain Because we see not where the threads have crossed?

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Dream

 I dreamed that I ws dead and crossed the heavens,-- 
Heavens after heavens with burning feet and swift,-- 
And cried: "O God, where art Thou?" I left one 
On earth, whose burden I would pray Thee lift.
" I was so dead I wondered at no thing,-- Not even that the angels slowly turned Their faces, speechless, as I hurried by (Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned); Nor, at the first, that I could not find God, Because the heavens stretched endlessly like space.
At last a terror siezed my very soul; I seemed alone in all the crowded place.
Then, sudden, one compassionate cried out, Though like the rest his face from me he turned, As I were one no angel might regard (Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned): "No moew in heaven than earth will he find God Who does not know his loving mercy swift But waits the moment consummate and ripe, Each burden, from each human soul to lift.
" Though I was dead, I died again for shame; Lonely, to flee from heaven again I turned; The ranks of angels looked away from me (Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned).

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

An Arctic Quest

 O proudly name their names who bravely sail 
To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas! 
Bring money and bring ships, and on strong knees 
Pray prayers so strong that not one word can fail 
To pierce God's listening heart! 
Rigid and pale, 
The lost men's bodies, waiting, drift and freeze; 
Yet shall their solemn dead lips tell to these 
Who find them secrets mighty to prevail 
On farther, darker, icier seas.
I go Alone, unhelped, unprayed-for.
Perishing For years in realms of more than Arctic snow, My heart has lingered.
Will the poor dead thing Be sign to quide past bitter flood and floe, To open sea, some strong heart triumphing?

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |


 My snowy eupatorium has dropped 
Its silver threads of petals in the night; 
No signal told its blossoming had stopped; 
Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 

Beneath the glossy leaves of winter-green 
Dead lilly-bells lie low, and in their place 
A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, 
Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 

This morning's sunrise does not show to me 
Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; 
Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see 
Its moments floated silently away: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?"