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… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
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. — 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… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
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… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
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
