Thomas Hood

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

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...

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 ...

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,

'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

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,

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...