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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

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.
Fruit
Butterfly
Bird
Shine
Flower
Autumn
Fall
Shade
Birds
Butterflies
Flowers
November
Leaves
Fruits
Shining
Bees

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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
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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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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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