Quote

Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.

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.
Brooks
Tone
Sun
Singing
Sweet
Glancing
Tones
Running
Pebbles
Littles
Soothing
Little

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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
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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! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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!
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood