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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 |

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 |

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 |

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.

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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.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

My Bees: An Allegory

 "O bees, sweet bees!" I said, "that nearest field 
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles.
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
" Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield, I set, and patient for the autumn's yield Of sweet I waited.
When the village bells Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed My hive.
Alas! no snowy honey there Was stored.
My wicked bees had borne away Their queen and left no trace.
That very day, An idle drone who sauntered through the air I tracked and followed, and he led me where My truant bees and stolen honey lay.
Twice faithless bees! They had sought out to eat Rank, bitter herbs.
The honey was not sweet.

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 |


 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 |

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 |

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 |

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 |

The Victory of Patience

 Armed of the gods! Divinest conqueror! 
What soundless hosts are thine! Nor pomp, nor state, 
Nor token, to betray where thou dost wait.
All Nature stands, for thee, ambassador; Her forces all thy serfs, for peace or war.
greatest and least alike, thou rul'st their fate,-- The avalanch chained until its century's date, The mulberry leaf made robe for emperor! Shall man alone thy law deny? --refuse Thy healing for his blunders and his sins? Oh, make us thine! Teach us who waits best sues; Who longest waits of all most surely wins.
When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
To doubt, to chafe, to haste, doth God accuse.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |


 With what a childish and short-sighted sense 
Fear seeks for safety; recons up the days 
Of danger and escape, the hours and ways 
Of death; it breathless flies the pestilence; 
It walls itself in towers of defence; 
By land, by sea, against the storm it lays 
Down barriers; then, comforted, it says: 
"This spot, this hour is safe.
" Oh, vain pretence! Man born of man knows nothing when he goes; The winds blow where they list, and will disclose To no man which brings safety, which brings risk.
The mighty are brought low by many a thing Too small to name.
Beneath the daisy's disk Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Calendar of Sonnets: February

 Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; 
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; 
No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, 
And willow stems grow daily red and bright.
These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will: Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed The ardent summer's joy to have and taste; Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed, To recon clear the new life's sterner need; Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

A Calendar of Sonnets: October

 The month of carnival of all the year, 
When Nature lets the wild earth go its way, 
And spend whole seasons on a single day.
The spring-time holds her white and purple dear; October, lavish, flaunts them far and near; The summer charily her reds doth lay Like jewels on her costliest array; October, scornful, burns them on a bier.
The winter hoards his pearls of frost in sign Of kingdom: whiter pearls than winter knew, Oar empress wore, in Egypt's ancient line, October, feasting 'neath her dome of blue, Drinks at a single draught, slow filtered through Sunshiny air, as in a tingling wine!

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson |

Unto one who lies at rest

 Unto one who lies at rest 
'Neath the sunset, in the West, 
Clover-blossoms on her breast.
Lover of each gracious thing Which makes glad the summer-tide, From the daisies clustering And the violets purple-eyed, To those shy and hidden blooms Which in forest coverts stay, Sending wandering perfumes Out as guide to show the way, All she knew, to all was kind; None so humble or so small That she did not seek and find Silent friendship from them all.
Moss-cups, tiarella leaves, Dappld like the adder's skin, Fungus huts with ivory eaves Which the fairies harbor in, Regiments of fronded ferns, Golden-rod and asters frail, Every flaming leaf that burns Red against the autumn pale, Every pink-cupped wayside rose,-- All to her were dear and known; But above them all she chose Clover-blossoms for her own.
So they laid her to her rest In the sun-warmed, bounteous West, Clover-blossoms on her breast.