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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?
William Allingham
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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
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Much
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Striving
More quotes by William Allingham
The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
William Allingham
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!.
William Allingham
Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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Autumn's the mellow time.
William Allingham
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.
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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
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
One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
William Allingham
Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
William Allingham
Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
William Allingham
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
Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
William Allingham
Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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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
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
William Allingham
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
I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
William Allingham
Scarcely a tear to shed Hardly a word to say The end of a Summer's day Sweet Love is dead.
William Allingham
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