Quote

I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.

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.
Brother
Roses
Lilacs
Tree
Cups
Lilac
White
Birthday
Violets
Living
Flowers
Lily
Light
Red
Robins
Remember
Rose
Robin
Made
Flower
Lilies
Built
Violet

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
Thomas Hood
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
Thomas Hood
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
Thomas Hood