Best 83 quotes of Thomas Hood on MyQuotes

A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth

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.

Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.

Bells are musics laughter.

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.

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

Coquetry is the champagne of love.

Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

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.

For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.

I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.

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.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn.

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.

I resolved that, like the sun, as long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything.

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.

I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.

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.

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?

My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.

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.

My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

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.

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

Peace and rest at length have come, All the day's long toil is past; And each heart is whispering, "Home, Home at last!

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.

So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears