WednesdayJul 29, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Thomas Hood (May 23, 1799 - May 3, 1845) was a British humorist and poet. His son, Tom Hood, became a well known playwright and editor.
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!
There is even a happiness that makes the heart afraid.
Heaven gives our days of failing strength Indemnifying fleetness And those of youth a seeming length Proportioned to their sweetness.
A moment of thinking is an hour of words.
When Eve upon the first of Men The apple pressÂ’d with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I 'm pious when I 'm only bilious; Nor study in my sanctum supercilious, To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
There 's not a string attuned to mirth But has its chord in melancholy.
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence.
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.
ThereÂ’s Bardus, a six-foot column of fop, A lighthouse without any light atop.
A man that 's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon.
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
Another tumble! That 's his precious nose!
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
Even God's providence Seeming estrang'd.
For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
How widely its agencies vary,— To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,— As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.
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.
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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.
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 bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head!
O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.
Sewing at once a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.
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.
Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould.
Straight down the crooked lane, And all round the square.
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!
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.
Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks.
We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
When he is forsaken, Wither'd and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch!
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
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