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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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 saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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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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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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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
Thomas Hood
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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