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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.
Dear
Air
Sweet
Sound
Undulating
Bells
Village
Swim

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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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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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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.
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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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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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