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

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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
Thomas Hood