Thomas Hood Quotes

Sewing at once a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”

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."

Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

Oh bed! oh bed! delicious bed!
That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.

No sun—no moon—no morn—no noon,
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day,
No warmth—no cheerfulness—no healthful ease,
No road, no street, no t' other side the way,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon.

For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo,
If you do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo.

Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence.