Quote

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.

William Allingham

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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Poor
Winter
Ghosts
Scanty
Dear
Autumn
Twill
Soon
Apples
Bough
Late
Hang
Pinching
Tree
Ghost
Pears
Turn
Near
Robins
Days
Indian
Robin
Turns
Trees
Princes
Russet

More quotes by William Allingham

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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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.
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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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
William Allingham
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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
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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.
William Allingham
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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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
William Allingham
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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.
William Allingham
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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
William Allingham
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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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.
William Allingham
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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
William Allingham
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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
William Allingham