Thomas Hood Quotes
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.
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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.
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The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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.
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What is a modern poet's fate? / To write his thoughts upon a slate; / The critic spits on what is done, / Gives it a wipe - and all is gone.
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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.
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
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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.
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Comfort and indolence are cronies.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
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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.
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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The cowslip is a country wench.
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Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
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