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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
William Allingham -
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waterswide.
William Allingham
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Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.
William Allingham -
Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
William Allingham -
I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
William Allingham -
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.
William Allingham -
Sin we have explain'd away; Unluckily, the sinners stay.
William Allingham -
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.
William Allingham