Helen Hunt Jackson

(18 October 1830 – 12 August 1885 / Amherst, Massachusetts)

Helen Hunt Jackson Poems

1. Faint And Weary Toiled A Pilgrim 4/25/2012
2. The Gospel Of Mystery 4/25/2012
3. How Was It 4/25/2012
4. The Angel Of Pain 4/25/2012
5. The End Of Harvest 4/25/2012
6. The Fountain Leaps As If Its Nearest Goal 4/25/2012
7. Draxy's Hymn 4/25/2012
8. Opportunity 4/25/2012
9. Died 4/25/2012
10. Unto One Who Lies At Rest 1/3/2003
11. Couleur De Rose 4/25/2012
12. The Poet's Forge 1/3/2003
13. My Tenants 1/3/2003
14. Tryst 1/3/2003
15. Silence Again 4/14/2010
16. Habeas Corpus 12/31/2002
17. Morn 1/3/2003
18. Forgiven 4/14/2010
19. Best 4/14/2010
20. Spinning 4/14/2010
21. Songs Of Battle 1/3/2003
22. Tides 1/3/2003
23. The Victory Of Patience 1/3/2003
24. Emigravit 4/14/2010
25. Poppies On The Wheat 1/3/2003
26. God's Light-Houses 12/31/2002
27. Where? 1/3/2003
28. Coronation 4/14/2010
29. Refrain 1/3/2003
30. My Bees: An Allegory 1/3/2003
31. To An Absent Lover 1/3/2003
32. My Strawberry 1/3/2003
33. Two Truths 1/3/2003
34. New Year's Morning 1/3/2003
35. The Fir-Tree And The Brook 1/3/2003
36. At Last 4/14/2010
37. A Last Prayer 4/14/2010
38. Death 1/3/2003
39. Chance 1/3/2003
40. A Calendar Of Sonnets: May 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Helen Hunt Jackson

A Calendar Of Sonnets: January

O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn
The bridges thou dost lay where men desire
In vain to build.
O Heart, when Love's sun goes
To northward, and the sounds of singing cease,
Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace.
Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose.
Walk ...

Read the full of A Calendar Of Sonnets: January

The Poet's Forge

He lies on his back, the idling smith,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he;
The sky is blue, or the sky is gray,
He lies on his back the livelong day,
Not a tool in sight, say what they may,
A curious sort of smith is he.

The powers of the air are in league with him;
The country around believes it well;

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