Thomas Hood Quotes
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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 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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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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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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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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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He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
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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 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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Comfort and indolence are cronies.
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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 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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For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.