Quote

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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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Wish
Wander
Creep
Love
Rings
Moss
Bright
Wandering
Ting
King
Creeps
Stooping
Across
Blowing
Fern
Kings
Bees
Primrose
Spring
Ring
Ferns
Tree
Yellow
Boughs

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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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.
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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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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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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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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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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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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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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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