Helen Hunt Jackson

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

Helen Hunt Jackson Poems

1. A Calendar Of Sonnets: April 1/3/2003
2. A Calendar Of Sonnets: August 1/3/2003
3. A Calendar Of Sonnets: December 1/3/2003
4. A Calendar Of Sonnets: February 1/3/2003
5. A Calendar Of Sonnets: January 1/3/2003
6. A Calendar Of Sonnets: July 1/3/2003
7. A Calendar Of Sonnets: June 1/3/2003
8. A Calendar Of Sonnets: March 1/3/2003
9. A Calendar Of Sonnets: May 1/3/2003
10. A Calendar Of Sonnets: November 1/3/2003
11. A Calendar Of Sonnets: October 1/3/2003
12. A Calendar Of Sonnets: September 1/3/2003
13. A Dream 1/3/2003
14. A Last Prayer 4/14/2010
15. An Arctic Quest 1/3/2003
16. At Last 4/14/2010
17. Best 4/14/2010
18. Chance 1/3/2003
19. Coronation 4/14/2010
20. Couleur De Rose 4/25/2012
21. Crossed Threads 1/3/2003
22. Danger 1/3/2003
23. Death 1/3/2003
24. Died 4/25/2012
25. Doubt 12/31/2002
26. Draxy's Hymn 4/25/2012
27. Emigravit 4/14/2010
28. Faint And Weary Toiled A Pilgrim 4/25/2012
29. Forgiven 4/14/2010
30. Freedom 1/3/2003
31. God's Light-Houses 12/31/2002
32. Habeas Corpus 12/31/2002
33. How Was It 4/25/2012
34. Morn 1/3/2003
35. My Bees: An Allegory 1/3/2003
36. My Strawberry 1/3/2003
37. My Tenants 1/3/2003
38. New Year's Morning 1/3/2003
39. October's Bright Blue Weather 1/3/2003
40. Opportunity 4/25/2012
Best Poem of Helen Hunt Jackson

October's 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 ...

Read the full of October's Bright Blue Weather

Morn

In what a strange bewilderment do we
Awake each morn from out the brief night's sleep.
Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep
Its slow way back, as if it could not free
Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory,
Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep
The joy or grief which it had last to keep
For us; and by the joy or grief we see
The new day dawneth like the yesterday;

[Hata Bildir]