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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

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.
Prove
Literature
Depose
Experience
Enables
Sickness
Seasons
Blessing
Sorrow
Comfort

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Thomas Hood
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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!
Thomas Hood
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
Thomas Hood
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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
Thomas Hood
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Thomas Hood
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
Thomas Hood
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
Thomas Hood
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Thomas Hood
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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.
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.
Thomas Hood
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We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
Thomas Hood
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
Thomas Hood
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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!
Thomas Hood
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
Thomas Hood
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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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!
Thomas Hood