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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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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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My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
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No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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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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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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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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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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How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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