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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.
Hath
Leaves
Flying
Gold
Begin
Sere
Dying
Sighing
Age
Gather
Autumn

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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
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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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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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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.
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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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