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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.
Spoons
Stirring
Fond
Action
Must
Men
Spoon

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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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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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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
Thomas Hood
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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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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Thomas Hood
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Thomas Hood
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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?
Thomas Hood