Maxioms by Thomas Hood
Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones.
Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones.
At night, to his own dark fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
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At night, to his own dark fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
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The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;--
Old age, begin sighing!
Such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
