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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.

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.
Loud
Ding
Sing
Steeples
Joy
Chimes
Able
Tune
Bells
Tunes
Ring
Peal
Rings
Chime

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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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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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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
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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 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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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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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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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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