Thomas Hood

The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no Salaam;
And dear the beaver read more

The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no Salaam;
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.

And soon
Their hushing dances languished to a stand,
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
read more

And soon
Their hushing dances languished to a stand,
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.

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.

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.

The year's in wane;
There is nothing adorning;
The night has no eve,
And read more

The year's in wane;
There is nothing adorning;
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;
Cold winter gives warning!