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

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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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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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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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My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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