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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.

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.
Dying
Sleep
Fear
Thought
Slept
Sleeping
Hopes
Fears
Died

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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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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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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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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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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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