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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!

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

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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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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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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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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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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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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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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.
Thomas Hood
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Thomas Hood
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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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
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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