Poem by Thomas Hood

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Far above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,--
Cloud doth never shade him,
Nor a storm invade him,
On his joyous throne.

So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth
To that blessed height.

1. Song (The stars are with the voyager)
2. The Departure of Summer
3. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy
4. The Two Peacocks of Bedfont
5. To My Daughter on Her Birthday

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