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

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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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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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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
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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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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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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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.
Thomas Hood