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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.
Fear
Thought
Slept
Sleeping
Hopes
Fears
Died
Dying
Sleep

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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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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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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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?
Thomas Hood