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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.

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.
Rings
Kept
Dog
Saloon
Books
Tavern
Reading
Saloons
Book
Taverns
Pits
Ring

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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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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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Thomas Hood
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
Thomas Hood