Thomas Hood (1799–1845) was an English poet, humorist, and journalist known for blending witty comic verse with poignant social commentary.
Born on May 23, 1799, in London, he was the son of a bookseller and publisher of Scottish descent. In 1815, seeking to improve his health, he spent time in Dundee where he worked as a journalist and sub-editor for a few years before returning to London around 1817–1821.
Back in London, he contributed to magazines and, from 1821, became an assistant sub-editor and contributor to the prestigious London Magazine, where he befriended literary figures like Charles Lamb, William Hazlitt, and John Clare.
In the mid-1830s, to escape creditors and seek better health, Hood lived abroad (Germany and Belgium) with his family for several years.
His most famous and socially impactful poems came later: “The Song of the Shirt” (1843), a powerful protest against the exploitation of seamstresses, and “The Bridge of Sighs” (1844), about a desperate woman’s suicide—both highlighted poverty and injustice and gained wide sympathy.
Despite growing recognition, Hood remained plagued by illness and debt. He died in London on May 3, 1845, at age 45, just short of his 46th birthday.
He is best known for his poetry attacking poverty and exploitation, but this is the one I had to learn at school. ‘I remember, I remember…’ shows a man looking back on his childhood with a poignant nostalgia. I am much older than Hood was when he died, but I look back on my childhood with a similar nostalgia.
I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.
