Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

THINE eyelids slept so beauteously, I deemed

No eyes could wake so beautiful as they;

Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay,

I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dreamed

Of dimples:—for those parted lips so seemed,

I never thought a smile could sweetlier play,

Nor that so graceful life could chase away

Thy graceful death,—till those blue eyes upbeamed.

Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drowned,

And roses bloom more rosily for joy,

And odorous silence ripens into sound,

And fingers move to sound.—All-beauteous boy!

How dost thou waken into smiles, and prove,

If not more lovely, thou art more like Love!