Quote

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.

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.
Many
Breasts
Like
Stood
Clasp
Kiss
Morn
Golden
Sweetheart
Kissing
Amid
Sun
Glowing
High
Breast
Light
Corn

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Bells are musics laughter.
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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.
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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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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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.
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Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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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!
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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
Thomas Hood