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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!

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.
Wife
Wives
Lives
Sisters
Mother
Motherhood
Human
Mothers
Humans
Sister
Men
Wearing
Dear
Creatures
Linen

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Bells are musics laughter.
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
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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.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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