Thomas Hood Quotes
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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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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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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He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
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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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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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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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The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
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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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Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
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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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But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
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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?
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A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.