Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood

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Thomas Hood (23 May 1799 – 3 May 1845) was an English poet, author and humorist, best known for poems such as "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Song of the Shirt". Hood wrote regularly for The London Magazine, Athenaeum, and Punch.
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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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No sun--no moon
No morn--no noon
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--No sky--no earthly view--No distance looking blue--No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--No end to any Row--No indications where the Crescents ...
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'Twas in the prime of summer-time An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool
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I Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear A fairy dream in honor of true love— True above ills, and frailty, and all fear,— Perchance a shadow of his own career Whose youth was darkly prison'd and long-twined ...
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No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day,
When every loyal lover tasks his wit His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay,
And to his mistress dear his hopes convey
Rather thou knowest I would still outrun A...
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The sun was slumbering in the West,
My daily labors past;
On Anna's soft and gentle breast My head reclined at last;
The darkness closed around, so dear To fond congenial souls,
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Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid
But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to
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Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,— A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die With that unchanging countenance of sleep
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,
Had lined its slumbe...
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The stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail;
But follow, follow round the world,
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There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
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Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth,
Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind,
And still a large late love of all thy kind
Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,— For all these gifts,
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It was not in the Winter  Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—  We pluck’d them as we pass’d
That churlish season never frown’d  On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown’d  With flowers when first we met
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Look how the golden ocean shines above Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth;
So does the bright and blessed light of Love Its own things glorify, and raise their worth
As weeds seem flowers beneath the flattering brine,
And ...
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I 'Twas in that mellow season of the year When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves Till they be gold,—and with a broader sphere The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind brea...
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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 W...
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