Helen Hunt Jackson
Helen Hunt Jackson
Helen Maria Hunt Jackson, born Helen Fiske, was an American poet and writer who became an activist on behalf of improved treatment of Native Americans by the U.S. government. She described the adverse effects of government actions in her history A Century of Dishonor. Her novel Ramonadramatized the federal government's mistreatment of Native Americans in Southern California after the Mexican–American War and attracted considerable attention to her cause. Commercially popular, it was estimated to have been reprinted 300 times and...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth18 October 1831
CountryUnited States of America
Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will.
Who longest waits most surely wins.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!
The voice of one who goes before, to makeThe paths of June more beautiful, is thineSweet May!
O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
One of Dr. Johnson's ingredients of happiness was, "A little less time than you want." That means always to have so many things you want to see, to have, and to do, that no day is quite long enough for all you think you would like to get done before you go to bed.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
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.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.