Quote

Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

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.
Red
Born
Poppies
Like
Blushing
Blush
Corn
Midst
Brown
Grown

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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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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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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.
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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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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.
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
Thomas Hood