Quotes from Thomas Hood

When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

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.

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.

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

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

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

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.

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

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.

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

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

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.

When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?

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

That a man be willing, when others are so too, as far forth as for peace and defence of himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all things; and be contented with so much liberty against other men, as he would allow other men against himself.

To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.

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

Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.

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

Coquetry is the champagne of love.

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

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

The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.

The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.