Thomas Hood
Thomas Hood
Thomas Hoodwas an English poet, author and humourist, best known for poems such as "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Song of the Shirt". Hood wrote regularly for The London Magazine, the Athenaeum, and Punch. He later published a magazine largely consisting of his own works. Hood, never robust, lapsed into invalidism by the age of 41 and died at the age of 45. William Michael Rossetti in 1903 called him "the finest English poet" between the generations of Shelley...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth23 May 1799
flower winter rose
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
dream most-romantic fiction
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.
yellow gold jewelry
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
mother men wife
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
ignorance boys joy
It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
grief blessed leisure
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
bed cry
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
queens agency ruins
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.
sex writing sight
My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
mother art moon
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?
ocean toss wave
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
eye drawing done
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?
men religion may
For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
sweet morning father
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.