Helen Hunt Jackson

Father, I scarcely dare to pray, So clear I see, now it is done, That I have wasted half my day, And left my work but just begun.

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

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

The goldenrod is yellow; The corn is turning brown: The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,—"blind as a bat," for instance. It would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its …

The voice of one who goes before to make The paths of June more beautiful, is thine Sweet May!

And every bird I ever knew Back and forth in the summer flew; And breezes wafted over me The scent of every flower and tree; Till I forgot the pain and gloom And silence of my darkened room.

On the king’s gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father’s stead.

[A]ll lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love.

Like a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask.