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

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.
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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.
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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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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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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.
William Allingham
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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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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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure We know the good time is yet to come.... Bare twigs in Autumn are signs for sadness We feel the good time is well-nigh past.
William Allingham
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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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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
William Allingham
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
William Allingham
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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.
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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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
William Allingham