William Allingham

William Allingham

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William Allingham (19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889) was an Irish poet, diarist and editor. He wrote several volumes of lyric verse, and his poem 'The Faeries' was much anthologised.
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The Winter Pear

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Is always Age severe
Is never Youth austere
Spring-fruits are sour to eat; Autumn's the mellow time
Nay, very late in the year, Short day and frosty rime, Thought, like a winter pear, Stone-cold in summer's prime, May turn from hars...
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Wayside Flowers

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Pluck not the wayside flower,
It is the traveller's dower;
A thousand passers-by Its beauties may espy,
May win a touch of blessing From Nature's mild caressing
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Wishing

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Ring-Ting
I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring
The stooping boughs above me,
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The Abbot Of Innisfallen

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The Abbot of Innisfallen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray
The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep, And wrapt in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep
Low kneel'd the Abbot...
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The Eviction

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In early morning twilight, raw and chill,
Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Through miles of mire in steady grave array Threescore well-arm'd police pursue their way;
Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings,
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The Bubble

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See the pretty planet
Floating sphere
Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near; World as light as feather; Moonshine rays, Rainbow tints together, As it plays
Drooping, sinking, failing, Nigh to earth, Mounting, whirling, sailing, Fu...
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The Fairies

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Up the airy mountain,  Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting   For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,   Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,   And white owl’s feather
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These Little Songs

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These little Songs,
Found here and there,
Floating in air By forest and lea,
Or hill-side heather,
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The Ruined Chapel

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By the shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound; Where Day and Night and Day go by And bring no touch of human sound
Washing of the lonely seas, Shaking of the guardian trees, Piping of the salted br...
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Late Autumn

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October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf
The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief That clothes our solemn purple ...
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The Lover And Birds

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Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love; Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest
To every word Of every bird I listen'd, and ...
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Writing

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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
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To The Author Of Hesperides

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Hayrick some do spell thy name,
And thy verse approves the same;
For 'tis like fresh-scented hay,—-With country lasses in't at play
A tribute to Robert Herrick
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Half-waking

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I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago; A straight white curtain at the head, And two smooth knobs below
I thought I saw the nursery fire, And in a chair well-known My mother sat, and did not tire With reading all alone
If I...
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A Gravestone

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Far from the churchyard dig his grave,
On some green mound beside the wave;
To westward, sea and sky alone,
And sunsets
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In A Spring Grove

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Here the white-ray'd anemone is born,
Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup;
And primrose in its purfled green swathed up,
Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn,
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