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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.
Withered
Dies
Age
Men
Forsaken
Shaken

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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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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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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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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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I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
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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!
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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
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There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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