Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MY SON, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY SON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou happy, happy elf!
Last Line: I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
Variant Title(s): To My Infant Son;a Parental Ode To My Son, Aged Three Years And Five Months;to My Son, Aged Three Years And Five Months;parental Ode To My [infant] Son
Subject(s): Fathers & Sons


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;
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that rings the air, --
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain so bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents; -- (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink.)
Thou cherub, but of earth;
Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, --
(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope !
(He'll break that mirror with that skipping-
rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's
mint,
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that ring off with another shove,)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are these torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,
(He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, --
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk!
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above.)




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