Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Thomas Hood More Quotes by Thomas Hood More Quotes From Thomas Hood Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge. Thomas Hood short-cuts cutting form My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread. Thomas Hood thread needles tears Comfort and indolence are cronies. Thomas Hood cronies indolence comfort Fuss is the froth of business. Thomas Hood 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. Thomas Hood bells able joy There's a double beauty whenever a swan Thomas Hood swans swim lakes My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon. Thomas Hood reading dog book A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth Thomas Hood birth luck names Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Thomas Hood charity atheism christian 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. Thomas Hood letters may men There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy. Thomas Hood chords mirth melancholy Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow. Thomas Hood sorrow blessing comfort Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves. Thomas Hood thieves book Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones. Thomas Hood singing running sweet My brain is dull, my sight is foul, Thomas Hood sight writing sex 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. Thomas Hood morning sweet father For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat Thomas Hood inward men religion 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. Thomas Hood fate writing giving When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die? Thomas Hood old-man age men Pity it is to slay the meanest thing. Thomas Hood pity
