HELEN HUNT JACKSON

HELEN HUNT JACKSON (1830-1885)

SEPTEMBER


The golden-rod is yellow; 
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook,

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.

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

But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.

'T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.

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HELEN HUNT JACKSON (1830-1885)

DOUBT

          
They bade me cast the thing away, 
They pointed to my hands all bleeding,
They listened not to all my pleading;
The thing I meant I could not say;
I knew that I should rue the day
If once I cast that thing away.

I grasped it firm, and bore the pain;
The thorny husks I stripped and scattered;
If I could reach its heart, what mattered
If other men saw not my gain,
Or even if I should be slain?
I knew the risks; I chose the pain.

O, had I cast that thing away,
I had not found what most I cherish,
A faith without which I should perish,--
The faith which, like a kernel, lay
Hid in the husks which on that day
My instinct would not throw away!

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HELEN HUNT JACKSON (1830-1885)

GOD'S LIGHT-HOUSES

When night falls on the earth, the sea 
From east to west lies twinkling bright
With shining beams from beacons high
Which flash afar a friendly light.

The sailor's eyes, like eyes in prayer,
Turn unto them for guiding ray:
If storms obscure their radiance,
The great ships helpless grope their way.

When night falls on the earth, the sky
Looks like a wide, a boundless main.
Who knows what voyagers sail there?
Who names the ports they seek and gain?

Are not the stars like beacons set
To guide the argosies that go
From universe to universe,
Our little world above, below?--

On their great errands solemn bent,
In their vast journeys unaware
Of our small planet's name or place
Revolving in the lower air.

O thought too vast!  O thought too glad!
An awe most rapturous it stirs.
From world to world God's beacons shine:
God means to save his mariners!

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HELEN HUNT JACKSON (1830-1885)

HABEAS CORPUS

      
My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? 
Why all this tedious pomp of writ?
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow
For half a century bit by bit.

In faith thou knowest more to-day
Than I do, where it can be found!
This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,
To which I am now chained and bound,

Has not of kith or kin a trace
To the good body once I bore;
Look at this shrunken, ghastly face:
Didst ever see that face before?

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
Thy only fault thy lagging gait,
Mistaken pity in thy heart
For timorous ones that bid thee wait.

Do quickly all thou hast to do,
Nor I nor mine will hindrance make;
I shall be free when thou art through;
I grudge thee nought that thou must take!

Stay! I have lied; I grudge thee one,
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,--
Two members which have faithful done
My will and bidding in the past.

I grudge thee this right hand of mine;
I grudge thee this quick-beating heart;
They never gave me coward sign,
Nor played me once the traitor's part.

I see now why in olden days
Men in barbaric love or hate
Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,
Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:

The symbol, sign and instrument
Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife,
Of fires in which are poured and spent
Their all of love, their all of life.

O feeble, mighty human hand!
O fragile, dauntless human heart!
The universe holds nothing planned
With such sublime, transcendent art!

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine
Poor little hand, so feeble now;
Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow --

*   *   *   (Unfinished here.) 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
I shall be free when thou art through.
Take all there is -- take hand and heart;
There must be somewhere work to do.

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The End