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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.

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.
Saws
Listening
Silence
Stand
Morn
Fall
Misty
Like
Fog
Mist
Autumn

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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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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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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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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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.'
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