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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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