Thomas Hood Quotes
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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The cowslip is a country wench.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
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Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
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And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
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Coquetry is the champagne of love.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume: There's crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.
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When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
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Peace and rest at length have come, All the day's long toil is past; And each heart is whispering, "Home, Home at last!"
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.