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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.'

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.
June
Flagging
Joy
Scent
Zephyr
Feet
Parched
Turns
Dry
Gust
Burn
Flowery
Dust
Eyeballs
Wings
Faint
Spring
Springs
Return

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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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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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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