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Poem by Thomas Hood


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My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed
On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he sleptforgetting his old speed:
For, as in sunshine only we can read
The march of minutes on the dial's face,
So in the shadows of this lonely place
There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart,
With aching hands and lingering of eyes.
Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight
By the same light of love that makes them bright! 



Thomas Hood


Thomas Hood's other poems:
  1. The Boy at the Nore
  2. Stanzas (Is there a bitter pang for love removed)
  3. The Two Peacocks of Bedfont
  4. Written in Keats' Endymion
  5. Sonnet for the 14th of February


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