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

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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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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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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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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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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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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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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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