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

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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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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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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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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.
Thomas Hood
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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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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Thomas Hood
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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.
Thomas Hood
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
Thomas Hood