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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

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.
Fame
Bravely
Upon
Fled
Paints
Gorgeous
Autumn
Sky
Paint
Summer

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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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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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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
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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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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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Fuss is the froth of business.
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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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