Thomas Hood Quotes

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!

My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.

Coquetry is the champagne of love.

There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.

Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence, listening to silence.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears

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.'

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!

To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.

Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

The cowslip is a country wench.

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.

Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?

Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

Peace and rest at length have come, All the day's long toil is past; And each heart is whispering, "Home, Home at last!"

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.

Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.

The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!

Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.

It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!

The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

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.

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.

The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth

When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.

Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.

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.