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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

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.
Lily
Lilies
Mate
Mates
Saint
White
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More quotes by Thomas Hood

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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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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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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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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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