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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.
Thomas Hood -
Fuss is the froth of business.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood -
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Thomas Hood -
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.
Thomas Hood -
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
Thomas Hood -
Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
Thomas Hood -
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?
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood -
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Thomas Hood -
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
Thomas Hood -
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Thomas Hood -
Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
Thomas Hood -
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
Thomas Hood
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Bells are musics laughter.
Thomas Hood -
Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
Thomas Hood -
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
Thomas Hood -
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood -
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood -
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood -
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
Thomas Hood -
We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
Thomas Hood -
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
Thomas Hood