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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.
Sweet
Sound
Undulating
Bells
Village
Swim
Dear
Air

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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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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! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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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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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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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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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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