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Autumn's the mellow time.
William Allingham
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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Inspiring
Time
Mellow
Autumn
More quotes by William Allingham
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waterswide.
William Allingham
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
William Allingham
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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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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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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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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Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it but if often costs the world very dear.
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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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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.
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
William Allingham