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Helen Hunt Jackson

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

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If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.

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

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

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

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

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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.

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There cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms of their families.

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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.

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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.

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