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Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

-William Allingham

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Pluck Not The Wayside

William Allingham

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Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

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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, The Wandering Bee To Love Me, The Fern And Moss To Creep Across, And The Elm-tree For Our King!

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?

Soul's Castle Fell At One Blast Of Temptation, But Many A Worm Had Pierced The Foundation.

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!.

The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing Ever.

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventfulthen, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

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.

Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies Open, Writ In Blossoms.

If Any Foes Of Mine Are There, I Pardon Every One: I Hope That Man And Womankind Will Do The Same By Me.

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.

Round The World And Home Again, That's The Sailor's Way!

Not Like Homer Would I Write, Not Like Dante If I Might, Not Like Shakespeare At His Best, Not Like Goethe Or The Rest, Like Myself, However Small, Like Myself, Or Not At All.

Writing Is Learning To Say Nothing, More Cleverly Every Day.

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 Believe In Success, And In Comfort No Less I Believe All The Rest Is But Patter.

Fairies, Arouse! Mix With Your Song Harplet And Pipe, Thrilling And Clear, Swarm On The Boughs! Chant In A Throng! Morning Is Ripe, Waiting To Hear.

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.

Autumn's The Mellow Time.

She Danced A Jig, She Sung A Song That Took My Heart Away.

Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company Twice As Bad.

Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summer-time!

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!

Winds And Waters Keepa Hush More Dead Than Any Sleep.

One Who Can See Without Seeming To See-- That's An Observer As Good As Three.

Before A Day Was Over, Home Comes The Rover, For Mother's Kiss - Sweeter This Than Any Other Thing!

Scarcely A Tear To Shed; Hardly A Word To Say; The End Of A Summer's Day; Sweet Love Is Dead.

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.

History Of Ireland--lawlessness And Turbulency, Robbery And Oppression, Hatred And Revenge, Blind Selfishness Everywhere--no Principle, No Heroism. What Can Be Done With It?

I Have Been An "official" All My Life, Without The Least Turn For It. I Never Could Attain A True Official Manner, Which Is Highly Artificial And Handles Trifles With Ludicrously Disproportionate Gravity.

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

Sin We Have Explain'd Away; Unluckily, The Sinners Stay.

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