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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
Mother
Ever
Thing
Sweetest
Kiss
Kissing

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Autumn's the mellow time.
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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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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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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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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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.
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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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I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
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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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Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
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Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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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Winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep.
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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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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.
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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
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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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