Thomas Hood quotes:

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

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

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

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.

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!

How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.

There are three things which the public will always clamor for, sooner or later: namely, novelty, novelty, novelty.

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

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.'

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

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

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.

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

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.

Coquetry is the champagne of love.

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

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

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

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.

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?

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.

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

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.

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

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

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

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

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

I saw old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; --Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

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

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.

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.

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

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

The cowslip is a country wench.

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

Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.

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

A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

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

Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

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

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.

Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.

Bells are musics laughter.

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

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

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

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

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

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

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

Fuss is the froth of business.

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

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

How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.

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

I resolved that, like the sun, as long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything.

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

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

My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.

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.

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

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.

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

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

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

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

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

Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.

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

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.

Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?

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

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

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

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!

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.

Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume: There's crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

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

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