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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.

William Allingham

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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Hills
Sweet
Land
Dearer
Stills
Roam
Home
Lands
Still
Hill
World
Beside
Irish

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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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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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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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.
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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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Autumn's the mellow time.
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I have been an Official all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity.
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Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it but if often costs the world very dear.
William Allingham
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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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Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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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.
William Allingham