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

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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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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.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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