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

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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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