Quote

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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Life
Hand
Dues
Tolls
Books
Keeps
Diary
Forget
Indeed
Forgets
Less
Busy
Diaries
Hands
Pay
Tedious
Book
Records
Pays
Eventful
Many
Becomes
Pens
Fulness
Men
Days
Emptiness
Toll

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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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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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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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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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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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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
William Allingham