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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.
Head
Sleep
Heaven
Upon
Insomnia
Earth
Delicious
Weary
Bed

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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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.'
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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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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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And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
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Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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