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

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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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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!
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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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 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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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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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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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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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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