Quote

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

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Bells are musics laughter.
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Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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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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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Thomas Hood
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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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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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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!
Thomas Hood