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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Thomas Hood

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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Bed
Head
Sleep
Heaven
Upon
Earth
Insomnia
Delicious
Weary

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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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?
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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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.
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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!
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