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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
William Allingham
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William Allingham
Age: 65 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 19
Died: 1889
Died: November 18
Poet
Writer
Sweetest
Kiss
Kissing
Mother
Ever
Thing
More quotes by William Allingham
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
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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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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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
William Allingham
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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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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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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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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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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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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Pluck not the wayside flower It is the traveler's dower.
William Allingham
Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!
William Allingham