Thomas Hood Quotes

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.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member— No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,— November!

No sun—no moon! No morn—no noon No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day.

Mad from life’s history, Glad to death’s mystery, Swift to be hurled— Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Oh! God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!