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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!

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.
Cover
Bed
Cry
Dead
Head
Good
Would

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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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 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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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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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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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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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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 name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Thomas Hood