Quote

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.

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.
Watches
Heaving
Watch
Breast
Night
Breasts
Life
Soft
Breathing
Wave
Lows
Kept

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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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!
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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.
Thomas Hood
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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.
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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.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Thomas Hood
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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!
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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
Thomas Hood
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood
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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.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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