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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.
Swim
Dear
Air
Sweet
Sound
Undulating
Bells
Village

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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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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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