Thomas Hood

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me.

A word once spoken cannot be recalled.

A word once spoken cannot be recalled.

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.

But who would rush at a benighted man, and give him two black eyes for being blind?.

But who would rush at a benighted man, and give him two black eyes for being blind?.

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.