Helen Hunt Jackson

O month when they who love must love and wed.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

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.

If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.

Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.