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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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Never
Manner
Handles
Life
Handle
Trifles
Sea
Official
Turn
Attain
Least
Gravity
Turns
Artificial
True
Highly
Ludicrously
Without
Officials
Disproportionate

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Autumn's the mellow time.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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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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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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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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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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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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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.
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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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Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it but if often costs the world very dear.
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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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Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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