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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
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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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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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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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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Bells are musics laughter.
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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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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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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.
Thomas Hood
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
Thomas Hood