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

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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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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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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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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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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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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 lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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