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.
Born
Poppies
Like
Blushing
Blush
Corn
Midst
Brown
Grown
Red

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Bells are musics laughter.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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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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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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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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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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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
Thomas Hood
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
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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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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
Thomas Hood