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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
Thomas Hood