“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. Helen Hunt Jackson Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name? Helen Hunt Jackson 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 earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood. Helen Hunt Jackson But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead. Helen Hunt Jackson By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer. Helen Hunt Jackson Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead. Helen Hunt Jackson I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod. Helen Hunt Jackson If I can do one hundredt”
