Helen Hunt Jackson

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

Comments about Helen Hunt Jackson

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  • amythegirl (3/18/2019 11:01:00 AM)

    hi
    im amy my name is amy i like red red is the color of many things like blood

    1 person liked.
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  • Danyell J. Bernier (7/17/2018 9:54:00 AM)

    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.......................
    LOOK FOR REAL POEM.....................www.precandy.com

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  • angel (5/15/2018 3:31:00 PM)

    what's so peculiar about silence again''

    4 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • helen hunt (2/5/2018 2:12:00 PM)

    hello tapan my name is helen hunt

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  • sorry eli is very rude (2/5/2018 2:11:00 PM)

    eli she is syupid ans weird

    1 person liked.
    5 person did not like.
  • puppy dog (2/5/2018 2:10:00 PM)

    love her so pretty art

    2 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • hiiiii 1 (2/5/2018 2:09:00 PM)

    she is coolhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

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    5 person did not like.
  • Tapan M. Saren Tapan M. Saren (9/2/2016 11:32:00 PM)

    She was a very talented poetess.. I love her works ''Calender Of Sonnets...''

    2 person liked.
    3 person did not like.
Best Poem of 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. ...

Read the full of A Dream

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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