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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.

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

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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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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.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
Thomas Hood
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood
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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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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.
Thomas Hood
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood