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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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Fairies
Waiting
Arouse
Clear
Ripe
Song
Pipe
Throng
Thrilling
Swarm
Boughs
Fairy
Chant
Hear
Swarms
Morning

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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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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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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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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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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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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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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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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
William Allingham
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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