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

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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Thomas Hood
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Thomas Hood
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Thomas Hood
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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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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood