Thomas Hood Quotes
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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Comfort and indolence are cronies.
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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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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
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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?
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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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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!