Thomas Hood Quotes
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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What is a modern poet's fate? / To write his thoughts upon a slate; / The critic spits on what is done, / Gives it a wipe - and all is gone.
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I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn.
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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
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A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
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My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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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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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
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I resolved that, like the sun, as long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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!
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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.
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Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.