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

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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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?
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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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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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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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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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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
Thomas Hood