Thomas Hood

But she is vanish'd to her shady home
Under the deep, inscrutable; and there
Weeps in a read more

But she is vanish'd to her shady home
Under the deep, inscrutable; and there
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.

The moon, the moon, so silver and cold,
Her fickle temper has oft been told,
Now shade--now read more

The moon, the moon, so silver and cold,
Her fickle temper has oft been told,
Now shade--now bright and sunny--
But of all the lunar things that change,
The one that shows most fickle and strange,
And takes the most eccentric range,
Is the moon--so called--of honey!

Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

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.

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams,
Unnatural and full of contradictions;
Yet others of read more

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams,
Unnatural and full of contradictions;
Yet others of our most romantic schemes
Are something more than fictions.