Quotes
Quotes - Hood
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."
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
But who would rush at a benighted man, and give him two black eyes for being blind?.
One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young and so fair!
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
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?
At night, to his own dark fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
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?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun. Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home had she none.
'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man, with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology-- A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little pole-hills The faculties throw up like mole hills.
Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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.
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.
There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--three On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?
The violet is a nun.
And soon Their hushing dances languished to a stand, Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon, All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.
