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
Kings
Bees
Primrose
Spring
Ring
Ferns
Tree
Yellow
Boughs
Wish
Wander
Creep
Love
Rings
Moss
Bright
Wandering
Ting
King
Creeps
Stooping
Across
Blowing
Fern

More quotes by William Allingham

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Autumn's the mellow time.
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
William Allingham
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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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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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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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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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
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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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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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
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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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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