William Allingham
William Allingham
William Allinghamwas an Irish poet, diarist and editor. He wrote several volumes of lyric verse, and his poem 'The Faeries' was much anthologised; but he is better known for his posthumously published Diary, in which he records his lively encounters with Tennyson, Carlyle and other writers and artists. His wife, Helen Allingham, was a well-known water-colorist and illustrator...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth19 March 1824
CountryIreland
foes hope man mine pardon
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one:I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.
asleep chair dream face fast kiss lap mother pillow reading shadows sing slightest softly sound till tire turn
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.
bed dreary far strangers time
But this is not my little bed;That time is far away;With strangers now I live instead,From dreary day to day.
spring blue years
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!.
home way sailor
Round the world and home again, that's the sailor's way!
sadness autumn past
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.
solitude too-much very-sad
Solitude is very sad, Too much company twice as bad.
time autumn mellow
Autumn's the mellow time.
autumn winter apples
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.
irish-poet learning
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.