Quote

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.

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.
Hours
Clouds
Father
Thee
Give
Sky
Sweets
Giving
Flow
Incense
Sun
Rosy
Meet
Skies
Sweet
Waking
Morning
Rise

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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.
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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?
Thomas Hood
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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!
Thomas Hood
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Thomas Hood
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
Thomas Hood
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood
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I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
Thomas Hood
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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.'
Thomas Hood