Helen Hunt Jackson (1830 – 1885)
American writer best known as the author of Ramona, a novel about the ill treatment of Native Americans in southern California.
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All lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love;
No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love.
Father, I scarcely dare to pray,
So clear I see, now it is done,
How I have wasted half my day,
And left my work but just begun.
The voice of one who goes before, to make
The paths of June more beautiful, is thine
Sweet May!
On the king’s gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They called him dead
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father’s stead.
Like a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days:
I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways.
I know each day will bring its task,
And being blind no more I ask.
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