William Allingham Famous Quotes
Reading William Allingham quotes, download and share images of famous quotes by William Allingham. Righ click to see or save pictures of William Allingham quotes that you can use as your wallpaper for free.
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
Lies open, writ in blossoms.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
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.
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?
Pluck not the wayside flower;
It is the traveler's dower.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this
Than any other thing!
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!.
One who can see without seeming to see
That's an observer as good as three.
O Spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!
No funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone
Corpse-gazing, tears, black raiment, graveyard grimness
Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness
Yours still, you mine, remember all the best
Of our past moments, and forget the rest
And so, to where I wait, come gently on.
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.
Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
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.
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.
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.
