Sonnet. To An Enthusiast.

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, I know not, in fair sooth,
Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind
Thine eyes with tears, - that thou hast not resign'd
The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth:
For as the current of thy life shall flow,
Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd,
Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen,
Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe
Thrice cursed of thy race, - thou art ordain'd
To share beyond the lot of common men.

Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood, born May 23, 1799, and passed away on May 3, 1845, was a British humorist and poet renowned for his comic verse and sharp satire. His most famous works include 'The Song of the Shirt' and 'The Bridge of Sighs,' which highlighted social issues and the plight of the poor. Hood's legacy is celebrated for blending humor with a deep empathy for human suffering, making his poetry both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Thomas Hood

Morning Meditations.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Death's Ramble.[1]

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

The Sun Was Slumbering In The West.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Stanzas.[1]

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet.

The world is with me, and its many cares,
Its woes - its wants - the anxious hopes and fears
That wait on all terrestrial affairs -
The shades of former and of future years -
Foreboding fancies, and prophetic tears,
Quelling a spirit that was once elate: -
Heavens! what a wilderness the earth appears,
Where Youth, and Mirth, and Health are out of date!
But no - a laugh of innocence and joy
Resounds, like music of the fairy race,
And gladly turning from the world's annoy
I gaze upon a little radiant face,
And bless, internally, the merry boy
Who "makes a son-shine in a shady-place."

Thomas Hood

Sonnet.

By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts,
Graven by Time, in love with his own lore;
By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts,
Wherein Love died to be alive the more;
Yea, by the sad impression on the shore,
Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear
That coast for ever, where the billow's roar
Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear;
By Hero's faith, and the foreboding tear
That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall;
By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear
That sigh'd around her flight; I swear by all,
The world shall find such pattern in my act,
As if Love's great examples still were lack'd.

Thomas Hood

Sonnet.

Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humor of the eye; -
Not being but an outward phantasy,
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek, -
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak,
As if the rose made summer, - and so lie
Amongst the perishable things that die,
Unlike the love which I would give and seek:
Whose health is of no hue - to feel decay
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime.
Love is its own great loveliness alway,
And takes new lustre from the touch of time;
Its bough owns no December and no May,
But bears its blossom into Winter's clime.

Thomas Hood

Sonnet. Written In A Volume Of Shakspeare.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie,
Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed, -
Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red, -
Like exhalations from the leafy mould,
Look here how honor glorifies the dead,
And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold! -
Such is the memory of poets old,
Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate;
Now they are laid under their marbles cold,
And turned to clay, whereof they were create;
But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd,
And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate!

Thomas Hood

Sonnet. Death.

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
That warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below;
It is not death to know this, - but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
So duly and so oft, - and when grass waves
Over the past-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.

Thomas Hood

Sonnet. To My Wife.

The curse of Adam, the old curse of all,
Though I inherit in this feverish life
Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife,
And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall,
Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall
I taste, through thee, my Eve, my sweet wife.
Then what was Man's lost Paradise! - how rife
Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall!
Such as our own pure passion still might frame,
Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow'rs,
If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came
To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flow'rs; -
But oh! as many and such tears are ours,
As only should be shed for guilt and shame!

Thomas Hood