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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!.
William Allingham
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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Years
Tears
Wing
Beyond
Bank
Four
Grass
White
Clouds
Remember
Wings
Littles
Sky
Pond
Little
Blue
Ponds
Thing
Spring
Ducks
More quotes by William Allingham
Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
William Allingham
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
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.
William Allingham
Autumn's the mellow time.
William Allingham
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.
William Allingham
Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
William Allingham
I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
William Allingham
One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
William Allingham
The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
William Allingham
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
Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
William Allingham
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.
William Allingham
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
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
William Allingham
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
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
William Allingham
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
William Allingham
Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
William Allingham
Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
William Allingham
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!
William Allingham