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

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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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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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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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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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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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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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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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