Thomas Hood on Valentine's Day

“Oh, cruel heart! ere these posthumous papers Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath; Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers, Have only lighted me the way to death. Perchance thou wilt extinguish them in vapours, When I am gone, and green grass covereth Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vain— It will not bring the vital spark again.”

“No popular respect will I omit To do the honour on this happy day, When every loyal lover tasks his wit His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay, And to his mistress dear his hopes convey. Rather thou knowest I would still outrun All calendars with Love's whose date alway Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun,— For with thy favour was my life begun, And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles, And not by summers, for I thrive on none But those thy cheerful countenance compiles; Oh! if it be to choose and call thee mine, Love, thou art every day my Valentine!”