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

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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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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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.
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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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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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