No. (heh heh)
It's from Thomas Hood (1799 - 1845), a not very well-known Scottish poet.
Here's the entire poem - "November"
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -
November!
Here are two different versions of his life, and since you might be interested, I'll also copy his most famous poem.
Quote: Thomas Hood (1799-1845) was born in London, the son of a bookseller. His childhood was complicated by the death of his father in 1811 which forced him to leave school and take a position as a clerk; before becoming interested in engraving under the influence of his uncle. He became interested in writing from an early age, and following a brief stint as a professional engraver began to write for the London Magazine in 1821. This association was short lived though, but the seed had been sown for his career as a professional writer which would also see him as an early champion for Copyright reform.
Quote: the son of a Scottish bookseller. Following poor health he was sent to Dundee in 1815 to recuperate with his father's relatives where he wrote for the local newspaper. returning to London in 1818. In 1821, after a period working as an engraver, he was appointed sub-editor of the London Magazine where he met Hazlitt, Lamb and John Reynolds. In 1829 he became editor of The Gem in 1829 and published works by Tennyson, among others.
It would be easy to dismiss Hood as a lesser poet of the Romantic Era and early Victorian age, but his contribution was far greater than most realise. Mostly known during his lifetime for his comic writings, many self-published, it is his more serious writings that are best known today. His major serious work was "The Song of the Shirt" which was published anonymously in Punch in 1843. It was a powerful attack on worker exploitation and was immediately reprinted in the London Times and other newspapers across Europe. It was dramatised by Mark Lemon as The Sempstress, was printed on broadsheets, cotton handkerchiefs and was highly praised by many of the literary establishment, including Charles Dickens.
The Song of the Shirt
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work ?- work ?- work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work ?- work ?- work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work ?- work ?- work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch ?- stitch ?- stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own ?-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work ?- work ?- work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread ?- and rags.
That shatter'd roof ?- and this naked floor ?-
A table ?- a broken chair ?-
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work ?- work ?- work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work ?- work ?- work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work ?- work ?- work,
In the dull December light,
And work ?- work ?- work,
When the weather is warm and bright ?-
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ?-
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread ?-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, ?-
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! ?-
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"