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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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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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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Thomas Hood