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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.
Dear
Struggle
Blood
Cheap
Bread
Flesh

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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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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 minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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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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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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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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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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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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