Thomas Hood Quotes

96 Sourced Quotes

John Jones he was a builder's clerk, On ninety pounds a year, Before his head was engine-turn'd To be an engineer!

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

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

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
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
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
One tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as man pangs, It had an universal sting; One tough of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string.

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

Thomas Hood
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.

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

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

Thomas Hood
A dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paying for a blank at last.

Thomas Hood
For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat

Thomas Hood
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.

Thomas Hood
The doctor and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. "O! hum — ha — yes — I understand." But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapp'd upon his chair.

Thomas Hood
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!

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

Thomas Hood
My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read--
Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a lark instead.

Thomas Hood
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!

Thomas Hood
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Thomas Hood
The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

Thomas Hood
One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Thomas Hood
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious;
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious,
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.

Thomas Hood
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather
Resemble copper wire, or brass,
Which gets the narrower by going farther!

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

Thomas Hood
Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!

Thomas Hood
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

Thomas Hood
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the Song of the Shirt.

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

Thomas Hood
A wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress.

Thomas Hood