Quote

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.

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.
Ring
Peal
Rings
Chime
Loud
Ding
Sing
Steeples
Joy
Chimes
Able
Tune
Bells
Tunes

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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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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.
Thomas Hood