Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
Helen Hunt JacksonO sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Helen Hunt JacksonGreat loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
Helen Hunt JacksonO bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
Helen Hunt Jackson