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

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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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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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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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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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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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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