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

William Allingham

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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Dower
Wayside
Pluck
Traveler
Flower

More quotes by William Allingham

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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
William Allingham
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
William Allingham
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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
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Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it but if often costs the world very dear.
William Allingham
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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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Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
William Allingham
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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
William Allingham
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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.
William Allingham
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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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Autumn's the mellow time.
William Allingham
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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
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
William Allingham
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
William Allingham
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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
William Allingham
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
William Allingham
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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.
William Allingham
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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.
William Allingham
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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
William Allingham
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
William Allingham