Quote

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

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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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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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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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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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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Thomas Hood