Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come? — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
“There had been no crises of incident, or marked movements of experience such as in Felipe's imaginations of love were essential to… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
“We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,--"blind as a bat," for instance. It would be safe… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
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… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share
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 Copy Share Image
Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come? — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand. — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
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… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
When love is at its best, one loves So much that he cannot forget. — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have. — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
The new is older than the old; And newest friend is oldest friend in this: That, waiting him, we longest grieved to miss One… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
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 Copy Share
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… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells. — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
