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

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.
Ears
Friend
Heart
Sympathizing
Condolences
Lend
Sympathy
Bless

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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
Thomas Hood
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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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
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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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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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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.
Thomas Hood
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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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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Thomas Hood
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
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Bells are musics laughter.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood