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
Less
Busy
Diaries
Hands
Pay
Tedious
Book
Records
Pays
Eventful
Many
Becomes
Pens
Fulness
Men
Days
Emptiness
Toll
Life
Hand
Dues
Tolls
Books
Keeps
Diary
Forget
Indeed
Forgets

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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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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.
William Allingham
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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.
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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!.
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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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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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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
William Allingham
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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.
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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
William Allingham
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Autumn's the mellow time.
William Allingham
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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.
William Allingham
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
William Allingham
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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
William Allingham