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
summer fall autumn
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.
summer running stars
O Spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!
summer heart spirit
Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
summer sweet love-is
Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.
love scarcely tear word
Scarcely a tear to shed;Hardly a word to say;The end of a Summer's day;Sweet Love is dead.
dead waters winds
Winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep.
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.
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.
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.
irish-poet learning
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.
dead poor robin
Alas! in winter, dead and dark,Where can poor Robin go?
along burns dead fall fire leaves slowly
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woodsAnd day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
home
Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kisssweeter this Than any other thing!
asleep chair dream face fast lap mother pillow reading shadows sing slightest softly turn
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.