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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.

William Allingham

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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Learning
Nothing
Writing
Every
Cleverly

More quotes by 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, 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.
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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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
William Allingham
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Autumn's the mellow 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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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?
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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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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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
William Allingham
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
William Allingham
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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.
William Allingham
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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.
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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Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
William Allingham