Quotes from William Allingham

She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.

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.

Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss - sweeter this Than any other thing!

Out of the city, far away With Spring today! Where copse tufted with primrose Give me repose, Wood-sorrel and wild violet Soothe my soul's fret.

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.

Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!

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?

No funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone, Corpse-gazing, tears, black raiment, graveyard grimness; Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness, Yours still, you mine; remember all the best Of our past moments, and forget the rest.

With pen and with pencil we're learning to say Nothing, more cleverly every day.

The cry, the dreadful cry! I know it--louder and nearer, Circling our Dun--the Ban-Shee!--my heart is frozen to hear her! Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of white Flitting away?--I saw it!--evil her message tonight.

Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.

You're a true poet: but, my dear, If you would hold the public ear, Remember to be not too clear. Be strange, be verbally intense; Words matter ten times more than sense; In clear streams, under sunny skies, The fish you angle for won't rise; In turbid water, cloudy weather, They'll rush to you by shoals together.

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.

Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.

While friends we were, the hot debates That rose 'twixt you and me! Now we are mere associates, And never disagree.

If he draw you aside from your proper end, No enemy like a bosom friend.

Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.

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.

Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.

One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.

Sin we have explain'd away; Unluckily, the sinners stay.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together, Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss — sweeter this Than any other thing!

Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.