Quote

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.

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.
Dreams
Fiction
Full
Fictions
Others
Contradictions
Else
Unnatural
Dream
Schemes
Nothing
Contradiction
Something
Romantic

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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
Thomas Hood
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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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.
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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!
Thomas Hood