Thomas Hood Quotes
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Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
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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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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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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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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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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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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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My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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.
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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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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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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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!"