Quote

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
Song
Ripe
Pipe
Throng
Thrilling
Swarm
Fairy
Boughs
Hear
Chant
Morning
Swarms
Waiting
Fairies
Clear
Arouse

More quotes by 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.
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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.
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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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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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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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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.
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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
William Allingham
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
William Allingham