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

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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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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Thomas Hood
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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!
Thomas Hood
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Thomas Hood
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And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Thomas Hood
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Thomas Hood