By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summers best of weather And autumns best of cheer.
By: Helen Hunt Jackson
When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
But all lost things are in the angels keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earths little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
On the kings gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They calld him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his fathers stead.
Love has a tide!
O month when they who love must love and wed.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote faster than I would write a letter - two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
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