Thomas Hood

'Tis strange how like a very dunce,
Man, with his bumps upon his sconce,
Has lived so read more

'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.

Over the brink of it
Picture it--think of it,
Dissolute man.
Lave in it--drink read more

Over the brink of it
Picture it--think of it,
Dissolute man.
Lave in it--drink of it
Then, if you can.

She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of read more

She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
read more

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

And soon
Their hushing dances languished to a stand,
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
read more

And soon
Their hushing dances languished to a stand,
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.