William Allingham Quotes

If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

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

Autumn's the mellow time.

Alas in winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go

Politeness costs nothing.. . . . Nothing, that is to him that shows it but it often costs the world very dear.

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

Scarcely a tear to shedHardly a word to sayThe end of a Summer's daySweet Love is dead.

But this is not my little bed That time is far away With strangers now I live instead, From dreary day to day.

And in a chair well-knownMy mother sat, and did not tireWith reading all alone.If I should make the slightest soundTo show that I'm awake,She'd rise, and lap the blankets round,My pillow softly shakeKiss me, and turn my face to seeThe shadows on the wall,And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me,Till fast asleep I fall.

Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time

I always get back to the question, is it really necessary that men should consume so much of their bodily and mental energies in the machinery of civilized life The world seems to me to do much of its toil for that which is not in any sense bread. Again, 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''

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.

I believe in Success,And in Comfort no lessI believe all the rest is but patter.

Sin we have explain'd awayUnluckily, the sinners stay.

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

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

A man who keeps a diary pays,Due toll to many tedious daysBut life becomes eventful -- then,His busy hand forgets the pen.Most books, indeed, are records lessOf fulness than of emptiness.

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world besideIt's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.

I always get back to the question, is it really necessary that men should consume so much of their bodily and mental energies in the machinery of civilized life The world seems to me to do much of its toil for that which is not in any sense bread.

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.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting, For fear of little men.

Most books, indeed, are records less Of fullness than emptiness.