When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.

Quote by Helen Hunt Jackson

Topics: Helen Hunt Jackson Quotes

But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever...

But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever...

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him...

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him...

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote...

As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote...

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With...

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With...

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And...

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And...

When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.

When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.

There cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so...

There cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so...

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon,...

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon,...

Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.

Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

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

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

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for...

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for...