Poem Lake | Page 2 | The Greatest Poems of All Time

Flowers I Will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun: The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;— But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every... Poet: Thomas Hood	The Dream of Eugene Aram ’t Was in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school; There were some that ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds ... Poet: Thomas Hood	Fair Ines O Saw ye not fair Ines? she ’s gone into the west, To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest; She took our daylight with her, the smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her breast. O turn again, fair Ines,... Poet: Thomas Hood	Morning Meditations Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying— For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,—... Poet: Thomas Hood
Faithless Nelly Gray A Pathetic Ballad BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, “Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg... Poet: Thomas Hood	Faithless Sally Brown Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady’s maid. But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was... Poet: Thomas Hood	The Art of Book-Keeping How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers—folks that fish With literary hooks— Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home ... Poet: Thomas Hood	Nocturnal Sketch Blank Verse in Rhyme EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth... Poet: Thomas Hood