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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
More quotes by Thomas Hood
Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
Thomas Hood
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
Thomas Hood
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.
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?
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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