Thomas Hood





Thomas Hood


Born
in London, The United Kingdom
May 23, 1799

Died
May 03, 1845


Thomas Hood was 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 and Tennyson. Hood was the father of playwright and humourist Tom Hood (1835–1874).

Average rating: 4.15 · 1,247 ratings · 155 reviews · 224 distinct works · Similar authors
Before I Go to Sleep

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3.72 avg rating — 36 ratings — published 1990 — 3 editions
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Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

4.13 avg rating — 15 ratings — published 1889 — 8 editions
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The Poetical Works of Thoma...

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 2004 — 3 editions
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Miss Kilmansegg and her Pre...

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really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 6 ratings — published 1840 — 2 editions
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The Haunted House

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really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 1895
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Hood Winked

3.50 avg rating — 4 ratings
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Thomas Hood - Poems Comic a...

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liked it 3.00 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 1996
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Poems

4.50 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2011 — 16 editions
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The Plea of the Midsummer F...

4.50 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 1827
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Whims and Oddities, in Pros...

3.50 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2010
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More books by Thomas Hood…
“I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; --
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.”
Thomas Hood

“Peace and rest at length have come
All the day's long toil is past,
And each heart is whispering, 'Home,
Home at last.”
Thomas Hood

“Silence

THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.”
Thomas Hood

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