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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!

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.
Dear
Air
Sweet
Sound
Undulating
Bells
Village
Swim

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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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 lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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.
Thomas Hood
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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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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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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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.
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
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood