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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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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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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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