Best 33 quotes of William Allingham on MyQuotes

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.

Autumn's the mellow time.

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.

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

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?

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.

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!.

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?

I always get back to the question, is it really necessary that men should consume so much of their bodily and mental energies in the machinery of civilized life? The world seems to me to do much of its toil for that which is not in any sense bread. Again, 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?

I have been an "Official" all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity.

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.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.

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

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

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

O Spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!

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

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

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

Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king!

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

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

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

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

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

The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.

The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.

Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.

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

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

In youth audacity is wise

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-hunting For fear of little men.