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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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 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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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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