Top 93 Quotes & Sayings by Thomas Hood
Explore popular quotes and sayings by an English poet Thomas Hood.
Last updated on December 21, 2024.
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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.
Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
There are three things which the public will always clamor for, sooner or later: namely, novelty, novelty, novelty.
'Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence, listening to silence.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
There is even a happiness - that makes the heart afraid.
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
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.
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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?
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.
What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.
The cowslip is a country wench.
There are three things which the public will always clamour for, sooner or later; namely: novelty, novelty, novelty.
For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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.
How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast!
It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we passed!
Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
I love thee - I love thee,
'Tis all that I can say,
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Bells are musics laughter.
Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own; How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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.
Coquetry is the champagne of love.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where
the sun
Came peeping in at morn.
There's a double beauty whenever a swan
Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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.
So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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.
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There's crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
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!
I resolved that, like the sun, as long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything.
Peace and rest at length have come,
All the day's long toil is past;
And each heart is whispering, "Home,
Home at last!"
For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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.
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.
What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust;
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,
And turns me 'dust to dust.'
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
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.
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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