Helen Hunt Quotes
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There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
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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.
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O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!
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Like a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days: I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways. I know each day will bring its task, And being blind no more I ask.
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Who longest wait of all surely wins.
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I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
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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.
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Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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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.
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Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.
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When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
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Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
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The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
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Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
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Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self.
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The woman who creates and sustains a home, and under whose hands children grow up to be strong and pure men and women, is a creator second only to God.
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Who longest waits most surely wins.
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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.
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O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!
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When love is at its best, one loves So much that he cannot forget.
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O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
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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 be thankful the rest of my life.
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The voice of one who goes before, to make The paths of June more beautiful, is thine Sweet May!
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Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.