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

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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
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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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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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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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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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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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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
Thomas Hood
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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