Thomas Hood Quotes
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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There are three things which the public will always clamour for, sooner or later; namely: novelty, novelty, novelty.
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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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Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
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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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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.
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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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What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
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For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
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Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
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My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?