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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

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.
Paints
Describes
Frost
Paint
Greatest
Artist
Rime
Nature
Clime
Icy

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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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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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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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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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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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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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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Bells are musics laughter.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Thomas Hood