Quote

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.

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
Eyelids
Fingers
Needle
Heavy
Rags
Labor
Needles
Woman
Weary
Inspirational
Sat
Thread
Worn

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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 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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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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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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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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.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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