62 Quotes by William Allingham

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

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 shake;Kiss me, and turn my face to seeThe shadows on the wall,And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me,Till fast asleep I fall.

And in a chair well-known My mother sat, and did not tire With reading all alone. If I should make the slightest sound To show that I'm awake, She'd rise, and lap the blankets round, My pillow softly shake; Kiss me, and turn my face to see The shadows on the wall, And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me, Till fast asleep I fall.

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.

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.

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.

Autumn's the mellow time.

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.

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