Quotes from Helen Hunt Jackson

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

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.

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.

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

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!

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.

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.

If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.

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.

O month when they who love must love and wed.

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.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown... The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

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.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

Next time! In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

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.

Gazing around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce the sky, looking down upon the world,--it seemed the whole world, so limitless it stretched away at her feet,--feeling that infinite unspeakable sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, and cried: At last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is joy!