William Allingham

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?

— William Allingham

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.

— William Allingham

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

— William Allingham

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.

— William Allingham

No funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone, Corpse-gazing, tears, black raiment, graveyard grimness; Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness, Yours still, you mine; remember all the best Of our past moments, and forget the rest.

— William Allingham