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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.
Sleeping
Hopes
Fears
Died
Dying
Sleep
Fear
Thought
Slept

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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Thomas Hood