Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray. Thomas Hood More Quotes by Thomas Hood More Quotes From Thomas Hood Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge. Thomas Hood short-cutscuttingform My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread. Thomas Hood threadneedlestears Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Thomas Hood poppiescornred Comfort and indolence are cronies. Thomas Hood croniesindolencecomfort 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 bellsablejoy There's a double beauty whenever a swan Thomas Hood swansswimlakes My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon. Thomas Hood readingdogbook A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth Thomas Hood birthlucknames Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Thomas Hood charityatheismchristian 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 lettersmaymen There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy. Thomas Hood chordsmirthmelancholy Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow. Thomas Hood sorrowblessingcomfort Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves. Thomas Hood thievesbook Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones. Thomas Hood singingrunningsweet My brain is dull, my sight is foul, Thomas Hood sightwritingsex 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 morningsweetfather For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat Thomas Hood inwardmenreligion 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 fatewritinggiving When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die? Thomas Hood old-managemen
