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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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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Fame
Bravely
Upon
Fled
Paints
Gorgeous
Autumn
Sky
Paint
Summer

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Thomas Hood
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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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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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.
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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Thomas Hood
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood
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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Thomas Hood
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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Thomas Hood
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Thomas Hood