With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.— Thomas Hood
The most superior Thomas Hood quotes that may be undiscovered and unusual
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.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
Coquetry is the champagne of love.
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.
There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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.'
When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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!
Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
Peace and rest at length have come, All the day's long toil is past;
And each heart is whispering, "Home, Home at last!"
Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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.
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?
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
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?
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
What is a modern poet's fate? / To write his thoughts upon a slate;
/ The critic spits on what is done, / Gives it a wipe - and all is gone.
Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
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.
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?