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
When on the ground red apples lie
in piles like jewels shining
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbines twining

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

Helen Hunt Jackson
Degrees
Of dying they know not...
All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

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

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
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian a thousandth part what Uncle Tom's Cabin did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.

Helen Hunt Jackson
O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather... Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.

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
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.

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
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
Who knows what myriad colonies there are Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of gains Thick planted in the distant shining plains Which we call sky because they lie so far? Oh, write of me, not "Died in bitter pains," But "Emigrated to another star!"

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 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.

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

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
The woman who creates and sustains a home... is a creator second only to God.

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
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
For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.

Helen Hunt Jackson