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

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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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