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
Turn
Near
Robins
Days
Indian
Robin
Turns
Trees
Princes
Russet
Poor
Winter
Ghosts
Scanty
Dear
Autumn
Twill
Soon
Apples
Bough
Late
Hang
Pinching
Tree
Ghost
Pears

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Autumn's the mellow time.
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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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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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!
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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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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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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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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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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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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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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