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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!

Thomas Hood

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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Gold
Begin
Sere
Dying
Sighing
Age
Gather
Autumn
Hath
Leaves
Flying

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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
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She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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Bells are musics laughter.
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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
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Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
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I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Thomas Hood