William Allingham

Poet

1824-03-19

Books by William Allingham

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Is idleness indeed so black a crime?What are the Busy doing, half their time?
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Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.
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By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
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In youth audacity is wise
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In youth audacity is wise
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By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
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Is idleness indeed so black a crime?What are the Busy doing, half their time?
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Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.
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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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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.
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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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In the evening, I walked sadly along the shore of The Solent, eastwards by Pylewell - returning, brought home a glow-worm and put it in a white lily, through which it shone.
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