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.
Read
Verse
Write
Foul
Away
Verses
Cannot
Dull
Pallas
Take
Sight
Lark
Writing
Sex
Larks
Instead
Owl
Brain
Thine

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
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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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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.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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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!
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood
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Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Thomas Hood
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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