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Thomas Hood Quotes
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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence.
Thomas Hood
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
Thomas Hood
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And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
Thomas Hood
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No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November! No! Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.
Thomas Hood
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Thomas Hood
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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?
Thomas Hood
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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?
Thomas Hood
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I'm sick of gruel, and the dietics, I'm sick of pills, and sicker of emetics, I'm sick of pulse, tardiness or quickness, I'm sick of blood, its thinness or its thickness, — In short, within a word, I'm sick of sickness!
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
Thomas Hood
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For dice will run the contrary way As well is known to all who play...
Thomas Hood
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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!
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
Thomas Hood
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How widely its agencies vary,—
To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,—
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
Thomas Hood
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'Tis strange how like a very dunce,
Man, with his bumps upon his sconce,
Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he
Has had, till lately, of Phrenology—
A science that by simple dint of
Head-combing he should find a hint of,
When scratching o'er those little pole-hills
The faculties throw up like mole hills.
Thomas Hood
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Sewing at once a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.
Thomas Hood
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Thomas Hood
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Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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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;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
Thomas Hood
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And lo! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame.
Thomas Hood
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
Thomas Hood
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Oh would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now,
And have a good cry!
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood
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Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.
Thomas Hood
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Each cloud-capt mountain is a holy altar;
An organ breathes in every grove;
And the full heart 's a Psalter,
Rich in deep hymn of gratitude and love.
Thomas Hood
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His death which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.
Thomas Hood
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There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.
Thomas Hood
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Quote of the day
We are half ruined by conformity, but we should be wholly ruined without it.
Charles Dudley Warner
Thomas Hood
Creative Commons
Born:
May 23, 1799
Died:
May 3, 1845
(aged 45)
Bio:
Thomas Hood was an English poet, author and humourist, best known for poems such as "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Song of the Shirt". Hood wrote regularly for The London Magazine, the Athenaeum, and Punch.
Known for:
The poetical works of Thomas Hood
The works of Thomas Hood (1840)
The comic annual, (1830)
Whims and oddities (1826)
Faithless Nelly Gray: A Pathetic Ballad
Most used words:
heart
time
work
gold
night
sun
leaves
love
morn
day
silence
dear
bed
head
earth
Thomas Hood on Wikipedia
Thomas Hood works on Gutenberg Project
Thomas Hood works on Wikisource
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