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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.

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.
Woman
Weary
Inspirational
Sat
Thread
Worn
Red
Eyelids
Fingers
Needle
Heavy
Rags
Labor
Needles

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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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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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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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Bells are musics laughter.
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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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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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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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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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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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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 bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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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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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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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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