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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

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.
Age
Men
Forsaken
Shaken
Withered
Dies

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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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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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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
Thomas Hood
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Thomas Hood
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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.
Thomas Hood