Quote

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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Four
Grass
White
Clouds
Remember
Wings
Littles
Sky
Pond
Little
Blue
Ponds
Thing
Spring
Ducks
Years
Tears
Wing
Beyond
Bank

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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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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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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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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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Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waterswide.
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