Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come? — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
One of Dr. Johnson's ingredients of happiness was, "A little less time than you want." That means always to have so many… — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind. — Helen Hunt Jackson Copy Share Image
But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years… — 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
