Helen Hunt Jackson Quotes
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.
O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!
Like a blind spinner in the sun,I tread my days:I know that all the threads will runAppointed ways.I know each day will bring its task,And being blind no more I ask.
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.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
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.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
The voice of one who goes before, to makeThe paths of June more beautiful, is thineSweet May!
Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!
O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
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.
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.
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.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray;The king came not. They called him deadAnd made his eldest son one daySlave in his father's stead.
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.
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
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.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown...The trees in apple orchardsWith fruit are bending down.
Next time!" In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
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.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
