More quotes by Helen Hunt Jackson
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what's in a name?
When love is at its best, one loves
So much that he cannot forget.
But great loves, to the last, have pulses red;
All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
The voice of one who goes before to make
The paths of June more beautiful, is thine
Sweet May!
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Attribution
Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: Helen Hunt Jackson (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.