35 Total Quotes

Thomas Hood Quotes

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

Thomas Hood
There are three things which the public will always clamor for, sooner or later: namely, Novelty, novelty, novelty
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#Novelty

Thomas Hood
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'dWere 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.
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#Future

Thomas Hood
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
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#English Poet #Race

Thomas Hood
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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#English Poet #Travel

Thomas Hood
Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
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#Gold

Thomas Hood
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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#Books And Reading

Thomas Hood
But evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart!
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#Evil

Thomas Hood
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear! And flesh and blood so cheap!
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#Poverty And The Poor

Thomas Hood
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.
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#Birthday

Thomas Hood
'Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence, listening to silence.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
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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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
There are three things which the public will always clamor for, sooner or later: namely, novelty, novelty, novelty.
Thomas Hood Permalink
#English Poet

Thomas Hood
There is even a happiness - that makes the heart afraid.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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#English Poet

Thomas Hood
Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid. But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint. "Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be." So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself. "And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried, and wept outright: "Then I will to the water side, And see him out of sight." A waterman came up to her, "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea." "Alas! they've taken my beau Ben To sail with old Benbow;" And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said Gee woe!. Says he, "They've only taken him To the Tender ship, you see"; "The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown "What a hard-ship that must be!". "O! would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him; But Oh!--I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim. "Alas! I was not born beneath The virgin and the scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales." Now Ben had sail'd to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furl'd. But when he call'd on Sally Brown, To see how she went on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian-name was John. "O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, How could you serve me so? I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow": Then reading on his 'bacco box He heaved a bitter sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye. And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not though he tried; His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd His pigtail till he died. His death, which happen'd in his berth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll'd the bell.
Thomas Hood Permalink
#Love

Thomas Hood
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. Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?--Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noonday, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?-- Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drown├Ęd past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair: She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
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#Autumn

Thomas Hood
Along the Woodford road there comes a noise Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat post-chaise Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays, With Reverend Mr. Crow and six small boys, Who ever and anon declare their joys With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas, At going home to spend their Christmas days, And changing learning's pains for pleasure's toys. Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls, But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray, The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls, And little boys walk in as dull and mum As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb!
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#Christmas

Thomas Hood
It is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite Be lapped in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this,--but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft,--and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.
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#Death

Thomas Hood
A Pathetic Ballad 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. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, 'Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot.' The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, 'They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs.' Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, -- Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off. 'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!' Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be a little more uniform. Said she, ' I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave 'Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now.' 'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches.' 'Why, then,' said she, 'you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!' 'O false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes. 'I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now, a long farewell! For you will be my death' -- alas! You will not be my Nell!' Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot. So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line. One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs; And, as his legs were off -- of course He soon was off his legs. And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town; For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down. A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died, -- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads With a stake in his inside.
Thomas Hood Permalink
#Faith

Thomas Hood
Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid. But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint. "Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be." So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself. "And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried, and wept outright: "Then I will to the water side, And see him out of sight." A waterman came up to her,-- "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea." "Alas! they've taken my beau Ben To sail with old Benbow;" And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said Gee woe! Says he, "They've only taken him To the Tender ship, you see"; "The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown "What a hard-ship that must be!" "O! would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him; But Oh!--I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim. "Alas! I was not born beneath The virgin and the scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales." Now Ben had sail'd to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furl'd. But when he call'd on Sally Brown, To see how she went on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian-name was John. "O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, How could you serve me so? I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow": Then reading on his 'bacco box He heaved a bitter sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye. And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not though he tried; His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd His pigtail till he died. His death, which happen'd in his berth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll'd the bell.
Thomas Hood Permalink
#Faith #Love #Love Poems for Her

Thomas Hood
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. On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripen'd;--such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light, That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:-- Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.
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#Love