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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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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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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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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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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.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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