Quotes by Thomas Hood

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread,- Stitch! stitch! stitch!

When he is forsaken, Wither'd and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks.

The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

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

Straight down the crooked lane, And all round the square.

Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould.

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.