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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.
Men
Forsaken
Shaken
Withered
Dies
Age

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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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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Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
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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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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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There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
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Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
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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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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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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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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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Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
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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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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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