No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood (1798 - 1845)
Source: The Song of the Shirt.
Contributed by: Zaady
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member - No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head!
Source: Her Dream.
O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
Source: A Table of Errata.
One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death.
Source: The Bridge of Sighs.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Source: The Death-Bed.
Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.
Source: Miss Kilmansegg. Her Christening.
Sewing at once a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.
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