Maxioms by Thomas Hood
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 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!
Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!
Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
