Quote

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.

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.
Turn
Hives
Share
Drones
Turns
Industrious
Social
Undertake
Wells
Bees
Well
Honey
Infinitesimal
Labor
Hive
Willing
Fabrication

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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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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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To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
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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 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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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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Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
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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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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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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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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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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 shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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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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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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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