Thomas Hood (1799 – 1845)
English humorist and poet.
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.
That very night while gentle sleep
The urchin's eyelids kissed,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
No sun—no moon—no morn—no noon,
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day,
No warmth—no cheerfulness—no healthful ease,
No road, no street, no t' other side the way,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
Sewing at once a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.
'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.
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.
A wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress.
And there is ev'n a happiness
That makes the heart afraid!
'Tis strange how like a very dunce,
Man, with his bumps upon his sconce,
Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he
Has had, till lately, of Phrenology—
A science that by simple dint of
Head-combing he should find a hint of,
When scratching o'er those little pole-hills
The faculties throw up like mole hills.
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread.
We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence.
She stood breast-high amid the corn
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Another tumble! That's his precious nose!
Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.