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

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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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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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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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