Quote

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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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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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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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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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Thomas Hood