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

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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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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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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
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Thomas Hood
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood