Quotes from Helen Hunt Jackson

But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on till death.

Will not the Senorita trust me? Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. Yes, she said. I will trust you. You are Alessandro, are you not? Yes, Senorita, he answered, greatly surprised, I am Alessandro.

There was the whole world; if she loved him like this, nothing could make them wretched; his love would be enough for her, - and for him hers was an empire.

But undying memories stood like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, Majella!

O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together, Ye cannot rival for one hour October's bright blue weather

Dead men tell no tales, says the proverb. One wishes they could. We should miss some spicy contributions to magazine and newspaper literature; and a sudden silence would fall upon some loud-mouthed living.

Why did i halt and weakly tremble? Even in heaven the memory smote -- Fool to be dumb and to dissemble! Alas, for the song I never wrote.

Father, I scarcely dare to pray, So clear I see, now it is done, That I have wasted half my day And left my work but just begun. A Last Prayer

Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the Señora herself. The Señora was of the past, Ramona was of the present.

Only a night from old to new; Only a sleep from night to morn. The new is but the old come true; Each sunrise sees a new year born.

When one thinks in the wilderness, alone, . . . many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher.

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.

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

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

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.

Who longest waits most surely wins.

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.

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.

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.

We sail, at sunrise, daily, "outward bound."

Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.

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.

No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, love.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.