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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
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Coquetry is the champagne of love.
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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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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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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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When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own; How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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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.
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Comfort and indolence are cronies.
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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.