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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
Time
Pleasure
Nigh
Past
Twigs
Wells
Enhance
Come
April
Well
Bare
Feel
Signs
Feels
Autumn
Good
Sadness

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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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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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.
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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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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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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!
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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