Helen Hunt Jackson

(21 votes)   There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(300 votes)   O suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together. Ye cannot rival for one hour October's bright blue weather.

Helen Hunt Jackson
1830-1885, American Writer

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(94 votes)   Oh, write of me, not ''Died in bitter pains,'' but ''Emigrated to another star!''

Helen Hunt Jackson
1830-1885, American Writer

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(26 votes)   Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(23 votes)   Love has a tide!

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(22 votes)   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
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(22 votes)   The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(21 votes)   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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(21 votes)   By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(21 votes)   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
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(20 votes)   When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(19 votes)   But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(19 votes)   O month when they who love must love and wed.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(19 votes)   O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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(18 votes)   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.

Helen Hunt Jackson
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