Quotes from Thomas Hood

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!

One more unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashioned so slenderly,Young, and so fair!

Alas for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!

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

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

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,No comfortable feel in any member—No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds—November!

O God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!

There is even a happiness - that makes the heart afraid.

Now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy.

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.

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

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

With fingers weary and worn,With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat in unwomanly ragsPlying her needle and thread—Stitch! stitch! stitch!In poverty, hunger, and dirt.

I saw old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like silence, listeningTo silence.

And there is even a happinessThat makes the heart afraid.

There's not a string attuned to mirthBut has its chord in melancholy.

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

She sang the Song of the Shirt.

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

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

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

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!