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

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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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 sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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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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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
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