All Helen Hunt Jackson Quotes
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
Helen Hunt Jackson
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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
47% of people like this quote
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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If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
Helen Hunt Jackson
46% of people like this quote
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