Quote

The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!

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.
Cold
Morning
Year
Adorning
Fall
Wane
Night
Warning
Nothing
Autumn
Giving
Winter
Years
Gives

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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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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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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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