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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.
Cheap
Bread
Flesh
Dear
Struggle
Blood

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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
Thomas Hood