Helen Hunt Jackson Quotes
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If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
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One of Dr. Johnson's ingredients of happiness was, "A little less time than you want." That means always to have so many things you want to see, to have, and to do, that no day is quite long enough for all you think you would like to get done before you go to bed.
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Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
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The voice of one who goes before, to makeThe paths of June more beautiful, is thineSweet May!
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O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire, What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire The streams than under ice. June could not hire Her roses to forego the strength they learn In sleeping on thy breast.
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On the king's gate the moss grew gray;The king came not. They called him deadAnd made his eldest son one daySlave in his father's stead.
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Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
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The new is older than the old; And newest friend is oldest friend in this: That, waiting him, we longest grieved to miss One thing we sought.
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O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!
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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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Who longest wait of all surely wins.
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Like a blind spinner in the sun,I tread my days:I know that all the threads will runAppointed ways.I know each day will bring its task,And being blind no more I ask.
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Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
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When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
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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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Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second.
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Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
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Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!
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There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
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No days such honored days as these! While yet Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide For some fair thing which should forever bide On earth, her beauteous memory to set In fitting frame that no age could forget, Her name in lovely April's name did hide, And leave it there, eternally allied To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
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Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
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That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.
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Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.
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Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
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Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.
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When love is at its best, one loves So much that he cannot forget.
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The wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament. . . . Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.
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Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will.
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Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.
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