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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
Dead
Fire
Melt
Fall
Burns
Autumn
Slowly
Leaves
Woods
Along

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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?
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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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.
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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.
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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!.
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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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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!
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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.
William Allingham