The poetical works of Thomas Hood, ed. by W.M. Rossetti (Google eBook)

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1882
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Page 185 - Oh but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ! With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal!
Page 260 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light!
Page 260 - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, — But now 'tis little joy: To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy ! THOMAS HOOD.
Page 185 - WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — • Stitch— stitch— stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!
Page 184 - But why do I talk of Death — That phantom of grisly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own, — It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God!
Page 184 - Work, work, work! From weary chime to chime ; Work, work, work, As prisoners work for crime : Band and gusset and seam, Seam and gusset and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.
Page 358 - One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave...
Page 355 - The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain ; And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves ; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves ; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves ; And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, — Aye, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod...

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