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
All summer she scattered the daisy leaves; They only mocked her as they fell. She said: The daisy but deceives; 'He loves me not,' 'he loves me will,' One story no two daisies tell. Ah foolish heart, which waits and grieves Under the daisy's mocking spell.
– 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
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
– Helen Hunt Jackson
But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.
– 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
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
Friend, ahoy! Farewell! farewell! Grief unto grief, joy into joy, Greeting and help the echoes tell Faint, but eternal - Friend, ahoy!
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
I know the lands are lit,With all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Love has a tide!
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
– 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
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
O month when they who love must love and wed.
– 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.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Oh, write of me, not Died in bitter pains, But Emigrated to another star!
– Helen Hunt Jackson
On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
– 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
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
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.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
When love is at its best, one loves So much that he cannot forget.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Who longest waits most surely wins.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep. Will never find the ready hour to sow.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
Wondrous interlacement! 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
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
– 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.
– Helen Hunt Jackson
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.