Poem Lake | The Greatest Poems of All Time

Ruth She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened; such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with... Poet: Thomas Hood	El puente de los suspiros ¡Otra, otra infortunada, Ya cansada de vivir! Importuna despechada Que por fin logró morir. Recogedla con blandura, ... Poet: Thomas Hood	Je me rappelle Je me rappelle – oh ! oui je me rappelle La maison où je vis le jour, La petite fenêtre où dardait l’étincelle Du soleil, m’annonçant la vie et son retour. Il ne venait alors jamais un brin trop vite, Le jour qu’il me faisait avait trop... Poet: Thomas Hood	To my Infant Son THOU happy, happy elf! (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he ’s poking peas into his ear,) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits, feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin;... Poet: Thomas Hood
The Lost Heir “O where, and O where Is my bonnie laddie gone?” —OLD SONG. ONE day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sudden cry That chilled my very blood; And lo! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs... Poet: Thomas Hood	“I remember, I remember” I Remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! ... Poet: Thomas Hood	Ruth She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened;—such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red... Poet: Thomas Hood	“What can an old man do but die?” SPRING it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he ’s forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die? Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him... Poet: Thomas Hood
The Song of the Shirt With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the “... Poet: Thomas Hood	The Bridge of Sighs “Drowned! drowned!”—Hamlet. ONE more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care! Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Look at her garments... Poet: Thomas Hood