Quote

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

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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
Missing
Friend
Newest
Waiting
Grieved
Friends
Longest
Thing
Oldest
Sought
Miss
Older

More quotes by Helen Hunt Jackson

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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Who longest waits most surely wins.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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!
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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!
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Great loves, to the last, have pulses red All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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The voice of one who goes before, to makeThe paths of June more beautiful, is thineSweet May!
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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