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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

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.
Humans
Sister
Men
Wearing
Dear
Creatures
Linen
Wife
Wives
Lives
Sisters
Mother
Motherhood
Human
Mothers

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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 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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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
Thomas Hood
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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
Thomas Hood
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
Thomas Hood
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
Thomas Hood
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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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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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
Thomas Hood