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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
World
Beside
Irish
Hills
Sweet
Land
Dearer
Stills
Roam
Home
Lands
Still
Hill

More quotes by William Allingham

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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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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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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
William Allingham
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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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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!
William Allingham
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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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
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Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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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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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.
William Allingham
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
William Allingham
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
William Allingham