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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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Well
Bare
Feel
Signs
Autumn
Feels
Sadness
Good
Pleasure
Nigh
Time
Past
Twigs
Wells
Enhance
Come
April

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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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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.
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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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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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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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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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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?
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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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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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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