Quote

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

Thomas Hood

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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Cold
Morning
Year
Adorning
Fall
Wane
Night
Warning
Nothing
Autumn
Giving
Winter
Years
Gives

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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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.
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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.'
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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.
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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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