Thomas Hood

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that read more

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?

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

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

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.

Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday--
But what is read more

Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

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!