Thomas Hood Quotes
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Coquetry is the champagne of love.
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Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.
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The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?
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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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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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Comfort and indolence are cronies.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
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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 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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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.