Quote

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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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Take
Sight
Lark
Writing
Sex
Larks
Instead
Owl
Brain
Thine
Read
Verse
Write
Foul
Away
Verses
Cannot
Dull
Pallas

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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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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 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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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Thomas Hood