Thomas Hood Quotes

96 Sourced Quotes

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence.

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

Thomas Hood
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

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

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

Thomas Hood
For dice will run the contrary way As well is known to all who play...

Thomas Hood
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
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
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
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
'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
Sewing at once a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

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

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

Thomas Hood
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
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
And lo! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame.

Thomas Hood
For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

Thomas Hood
Oh would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now,
And have a good cry!

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

Thomas Hood
Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

Thomas Hood
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
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
There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.

Thomas Hood