William Allingham Quotes

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!

Autumn's the mellow time.

Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.

Four ducks on a pond, / A grass-bank beyond, / A blue sky of spring, / White clouds on the wing: / What a little thing / To remember for years - / To remember with tears!.

If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.

History of Ireland--lawlessness and turbulency, robbery and oppression, hatred and revenge, blind selfishness everywhere--no principle, no heroism. What can be done with it?

Fairies, arouse! Mix with your song Harplet and pipe, Thrilling and clear, Swarm on the boughs! Chant in a throng! Morning is ripe, Waiting to hear.

Pluck not the wayside flower; It is the traveler's dower.

She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.

A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful—then, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness.

Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!

Does not the latent feeling that much of their striving is to no purpose tend to infuse large quantities of sham into men's work?

Not like Homer would I write, Not like Dante if I might, Not like Shakespeare at his best, Not like Goethe or the rest, Like myself, however small, Like myself, or not at all.

Sin we have explain'd away; Unluckily, the sinners stay.

I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.

Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.

Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.

The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.

Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure; We know the good time is yet to come.... Bare twigs in Autumn are signs for sadness; We feel the good time is well-nigh past.

Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.

Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waterswide.

One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.

Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it; but if often costs the world very dear.

Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.

Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.

Is idleness indeed so black a crime?What are the Busy doing, half their time?

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.

In youth audacity is wise