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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

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.
Describes
Frost
Paint
Greatest
Artist
Rime
Nature
Clime
Icy
Paints

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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.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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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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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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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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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.
Thomas Hood