Those Evening Bells.

Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells, -
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,
And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away,
The Postman gone - and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.^[1]

And so 'twill be when she is gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

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

To Hope.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

A Singular Exhibition At Somerset House.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Lieutenant Luff.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Fair Ines.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Those Evening Bells. (Air.--The Bells Of St. Petersburgh.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away:
And many a heart, that then was gay.
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

Thomas Moore

The Sun Was Slumbering In The West.

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 clos'd around, so dear
To fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmur'd at my ear,
"My love, we're out of coals!"

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,
Insisting on his rent;
And all the Todds are coming up
To see us, out of Kent; -
I quite forgot to tell you John
Has had a tipsy fall; -
I'm sure there's something going on
With that vile Mary Hall! - "

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,
And I have bought the rest -
Of course, if we go out of town,
Southend will be the best. -
I really think the Jones's house
Would be the thing for us; -
I think I told you Mrs. Pope
Had parted with h...

Thomas Hood

The Bells Of Kirkby Overblow

Draw back my curtains, Mary,
    An' oppen t' windey wide;
Ay, ay, I know I'm deein',
    While to-morn I'll hardlins bide.
But yit afore all's ovver,
    An' I lig cowd as snow,
I'll hear once more them owd church bells
                            O' Kirkby Overblow.

Mony a neet an' mornin'
    I've heerd yon church bells peal;
An' how I've threaped an' cursed 'em
    When I was strong an' weel!
Gert, skelpin', chunterin' taistrils,(1)
    All janglin' in a row!
Ay, mony a time I've cursed yon bells
                            O' Kirkby Overblow.

When you hear yon church bells ringin',
    You can't enjoy your sin;
T' bells clutches at your heart-strings
    I' t' ale-house ower your gin.
At pitch-an'-toss you're laikin',
...

Frederic William Moorman

The Dead Quire

I

Beside the Mead of Memories,
Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,
The sad man sighed his phantasies:
He seems to sigh them still.

II

"'Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers
Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,
But the Mellstock quire of former years
Had entered into rest.

III

"Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,
And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,
And Bowman with his family
By the wall that the ivies bind.

IV

"The singers had followed one by one,
Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass;
And the worm that wasteth had begun
To mine their mouldering place.

V

"For two-score years, ere Christ-day light,
Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these;
But now there e...

Thomas Hardy

The Bell

It is the bell of death I hear,
Which tells me my own time is near,
When I must join those quiet souls
Where nothing lives but worms and moles;
And not come through the grass again,
Like worms and moles, for breath or rain;
Yet let none weep when my life's through,
For I myself have wept for few.

The only things that knew me well
Were children, dogs, and girls that fell;
I bought poor children cakes and sweets,
Dogs heard my voice and danced the streets;
And, gentle to a fallen lass,
I made her weep for what she was.
Good men and women know not me.
Nor love nor hate the mystery.

William Henry Davies

The Lost Bells.

Year after year the artist wrought
    With earnest, loving care,
The music flooding all his soul
    To pour upon the air.

For this no metal was too rare,
    He counted not the cost;
Nor deemed the years in which he toiled
    As labor vainly lost.

When morning flushed with crimson light
    The golden gates of day,
He longed to fill the air with chimes
    Sweet as a matin's lay.

And when the sun was sinking low
    Within the distant West,
He gladly heard the bells he wrought
    Herald the hour of rest.

The music of a thousand harps
    Could never be so dear
As when those solemn chants and thrills
    Fell on his list'ning ear.

He poured his soul into their chimes,
    And felt his toil repaid;
...

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper