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

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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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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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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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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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