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

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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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!.
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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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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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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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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?
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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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