What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.
Thomas HoodOur very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Thomas HoodThe Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
Thomas HoodI saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Thomas Hood