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

William Allingham

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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Autumn
Slowly
Leaves
Woods
Along
Dead
Fire
Melt
Fall
Burns

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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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.
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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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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.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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!
William Allingham
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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!.
William Allingham
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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?
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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.
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Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it but if often costs the world very dear.
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Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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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.
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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?
William Allingham
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If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.
William Allingham
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
William Allingham