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

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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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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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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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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.
Thomas Hood