Helen Hunt Jackson Quotes

37 Sourced Quotes

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what's in a name?

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
Ah March! we know thou art
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!

Helen Hunt Jackson
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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
All nights are sacred nights to make confession and resolve and prayer; all days are sacred days to wake new gladness in the sunny air.

Helen Hunt Jackson
Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. It is a woman's face usually; often a face which has trace of great sorrow all over it, till the smile breaks. Such a smile transfigures: such a smile, if the artful but knew it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.

Helen Hunt Jackson
Mistaken saints, who thought to save
Their souls, by making life a grave.

Helen Hunt Jackson
Oh, write of me, not 'Died in bitter pains,'
But 'Emigrated to another star!'

Helen Hunt Jackson
'Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

Helen Hunt Jackson
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; and so on till death.

Helen Hunt Jackson
And every bird I ever knew
Back and forth in the summer flew;
And breezes wafted over me
The scent of every flower and tree:
Till I forgot the pain and gloom
And silence of my darkened room

Helen Hunt Jackson
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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep
Will never find the ready hour to sow.

Helen Hunt Jackson
Holding fast to threads by green and silky rings, With the dawn it spreads its white and purple wings; Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it clings, Sturdy morning-glory.

Helen Hunt Jackson
The voice of one who goes before, to make
The paths of June more beautiful, is thine
Sweet May!

Helen Hunt Jackson
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
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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.

Helen Hunt Jackson
The lands are lit with all the autumn blaze of golden-rod, and everywhere the purple asters nod and bend and wave and flit.

Helen Hunt Jackson
My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?
Why all this tedious pomp of writ?
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow
For half a century bit by bit.

Helen Hunt Jackson
Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
The mighty are brought low by many a thing
Too small to name. Beneath the daisy's disk
Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. — A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

Helen Hunt Jackson