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

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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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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 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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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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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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.
Thomas Hood