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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!

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.
Head
Good
Would
Cover
Bed
Cry
Dead

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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
Thomas Hood
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood