William Allingham Quotes

Sweet Sunday bells! your measured sound Enhances the repose profound Of all these golden fields around, And range of mountain, sunshine-drowned.

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It’s home, sweet home, where’er I roam, through lands and waters wide

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.

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?

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

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.

Pluck not the wayside flower; It is the traveler''s dower.

Autumn''s the mellow time

How strange and awful is the synthesis of life and death in the gusty winds and falling leaves of an autumnal day! Samuel Taylor Coleridge| Now Autumn''s fire burns slowly along the woods And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt