The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt; Some hues were fresh, and some decay'd and duller; But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out With vehemence of color!

Idly watching the Furnace-flames, The men of the stithy Are in their smithy, Brutal monsters, with bulky frames, Beings Humanity scarcely claims, But hybrids rather of demon rac...

The deed is done: the Tree is low That stood so long and firm; The Woodman and his axe are gone, His toil has found its term; And where he wrought the speckled Thrush Securely h...

Like a dead man gone to his shroud, The sun has sunk in a copper cloud, And the wind is rising squally and loud With many a stormy token,-- Playing a wild funereal air Through t...

The Scene is changed! No green Arcade, No Trees all ranged a-row-- But scatter'd like a beaten host, Dispersing to and fro; With here and there a sylvan corse, That fell before...

The beds were all untouch'd by hand or tool; No footstep marked the damp and mossy gravel, Each walk as green as is the mantled pool, For want of human travel.

O, very gloomy is the House of Woe, Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling, With all the dark solemnities which show That Death is in the dwelling!