When Time is spent, Eternity begins.— Helen Hunt Jackson
The most vibrant Helen Hunt Jackson quotes that are glad to read
No days such honored days as these! While yet Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide For some fair thing which should forever bide On earth, her beauteous memory to set In fitting frame that no age could forget, Her name in lovely April's name did hide, And leave it there, eternally allied To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
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.
O suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together.
Ye cannot rival for one hour October's bright blue weather.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
Love has a tide!
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.
Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!
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.
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.
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.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
Oh, write of me, not Died in bitter pains, but Emigrated to another star!
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
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.
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.
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.
The voice of one who goes before, to makeThe paths of June more beautiful, is thineSweet May!
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, 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.
Who longest waits most surely wins.
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.
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.
Who longest wait of all surely wins.
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
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.
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
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.
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!
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.
That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.
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.
Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
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.