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

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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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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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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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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.
Thomas Hood