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

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.
Struggle
Blood
Cheap
Bread
Flesh
Dear

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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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?
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
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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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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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!
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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!
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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