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

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.
Bed
Head
Sleep
Heaven
Upon
Earth
Insomnia
Delicious
Weary

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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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.
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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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.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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