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

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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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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.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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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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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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