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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!

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.
Sound
Undulating
Bells
Village
Swim
Dear
Air
Sweet

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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
Thomas Hood