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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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Best
Dante
Might
Homer
Writing
Originality
Would
Shakespeare
Like
However
Rest
Small
Write
Goethe

More quotes by 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
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
William Allingham
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
William Allingham
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
William Allingham
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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
William Allingham
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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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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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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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Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
William Allingham
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
William Allingham
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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.
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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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