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

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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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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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