Quote

Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.

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.
Social
Undertake
Wells
Bees
Well
Honey
Infinitesimal
Labor
Hive
Willing
Fabrication
Turn
Hives
Share
Drones
Turns
Industrious

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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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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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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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