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O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Helen Hunt Jackson
Age: 54 †
Born: 1830
Born: October 15
Died: 1885
Died: September 12
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Helen Maria Fiske Hunt Jackson
Helen Fiske
H. H. Jackson
H.H
Helen Maria Fiske Jackson
Helen Maria Hunt
Helen Maria Hunt Jackson
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More quotes by Helen Hunt Jackson
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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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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Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
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Who longest waits most surely wins.
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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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Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
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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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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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There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
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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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The woman who creates and sustains a home, and under whose hands children grow up to be strong and pure men and women, is a creator second only to God.
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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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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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On the king's gate the moss grew grayThe king came not. They called him deadAnd made his eldest son one daySlave in his father's stead.
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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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Great loves, to the last, have pulses red All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
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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.
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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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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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Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
Helen Hunt Jackson
