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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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.
Spoon
Spoons
Stirring
Fond
Action
Must
Men
More quotes by Thomas Hood
Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Thomas Hood
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Thomas Hood
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
Thomas Hood
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
Thomas Hood
For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
Thomas Hood
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Thomas Hood
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
Thomas Hood
Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
Thomas Hood
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
Thomas Hood
The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
Thomas Hood
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.
Thomas Hood
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Thomas Hood
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.
Thomas Hood
And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
Thomas Hood
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
Thomas Hood
When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
Thomas Hood
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Thomas Hood
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Thomas Hood