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Best Famous William Allingham Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous William Allingham poems. This is a select list of the best famous William Allingham poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous William Allingham poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of William Allingham poems.

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Written by William Allingham |

A Day-Dreams Reflection

 Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay 
Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam, 
I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay 
Most idly floating in the noontide beam.
Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream, Buoyed like the young moon on a level stream Of greenish vapour at decline of day, Swam airily, watching the distant flocks Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep Touched the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks, Faint-circling; till at last he dropt asleep, Lull'd by the hush-song of the glittering deep, Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks.

Written by William Allingham |

In Snow

 O English mother, in the ruddy glow 
Hugging your baby closer when outside 
You see the silent, soft, and cruel snow 
Falling again, and think what ills betide 
Unshelter'd creatures,--your sad thoughts may go 
Where War and Winter now, two spectre-wolves, 
Hunt in the freezing vapour that involves 
Those Asian peaks of ice and gulfs below.
Does this young Soldier heed the snow that fills His mouth and open eyes? or mind, in truth, To-night, his mother's parting syllables? Ha! is't a red coat?--Merely blood.
Keep ruth For others; this is but an Afghan youth Shot by the stranger on his native hills.

Written by William Allingham |

Aeolian Harp

 O pale green sea, 
With long, pale, purple clouds above - 
What lies in me like weight of love ? 
What dies in me 
With utter grief, because there comes no sign 
Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line ? 

O salted air, 
Blown round the rocky headland still, 
What calls me there from cove and hill? 
What calls me fair 
From thee, the first-born of the youthful night, 
Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight ? 

O yellow Star, 
Quivering upon the rippling tide - 
Sendest so far to one that sigh'd? 
Bendest thou, Star, 
Above, where the shadows of the dead have rest 
And constant silence, with a message from the blest?

More great poems below...

Written by William Allingham |

Amy Margarets Five Year Old

 Amy Margaret's five years old, 
Amy Margaret's hair is gold, 
Dearer twenty-thousand-fold 
Than gold, is Amy Margaret.
"Amy" is friend, is "Margaret" The pearl for crown or carkanet? Or peeping daisy, summer's pet? Which are you, Amy Margaret? A friend, a daisy, and a pearl, A kindly, simple, precious girl, -- Such, howsoe'er the world may twirl, Be ever, -- Amy Margaret!

Written by William Allingham |

These Little Songs

 These little Songs,
Found here and there, 
Floating in air 
By forest and lea, 
Or hill-side heather, 
In houses and throngs, 
Or down by the sea - 
Have come together, 
How, I can't tell: 
But I know full well 
No witty goose-wing 
On an inkstand begot 'em; 
Remember each place 
And moment of grace, 
In summer or spring, 
Winter or autumn 
By sun, moon, stars, 
Or a coal in the bars, 
In market or church, 
Graveyard or dance, 
When they came without search, 
Were found as by chance.
A word, a line, You may say are mine; But the best in the songs, Whatever it be, To you, and to me, And to no one belongs.

Written by William Allingham |

A Seed

 See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down, 
And through the Winter neglected lay, 
Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown, 
With tiny root taking hold on the clay 
As, lifting and strengthening day by day, 
It pushes red branchless, sprouts new leaves, 
And cell after cell the Power in it weaves 
Out of the storehouse of soil and clime, 
To fashion a Tree in due course of time; 
Tree with rough bark and boughs' expansion, 
Where the Crow can build his mansion, 
Or a Man, in some new May, 
Lie under whispering leaves and say, 
"Are the ills of one's life so very bad 
When a Green Tree makes me deliciously glad?" 
As I do now.
But where shall I be When this little Seed is a tall green Tree?

Written by William Allingham |

A Gravestone

 Far from the churchyard dig his grave, 
On some green mound beside the wave; 
To westward, sea and sky alone, 
And sunsets.
Put a mossy stone, With mortal name and date, a harp And bunch of wild flowers, carven sharp; Then leave it free to winds that blow, And patient mosses creeping; slow, And wandering wings, and footsteps rare Of human creature pausing there.

Written by William Allingham |

A Memory

 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!

Written by William Allingham |

Robin Redbreast

 Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! 
For Summer's nearly done; 
The garden smiling faintly, 
Cool breezes in the sun; 
Our Thrushes now are silent, 
Our Swallows flown away, -- 
But Robin's here, in coat of brown, 
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, -- Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

Written by William Allingham |

The Boy

 The Boy from his bedroom-window 
Look'd over the little town, 
And away to the bleak black upland 
Under a clouded moon.
The moon came forth from her cavern, He saw the sudden gleam Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland; Or perhaps the whole was a dream.
For I never could find that water In all my walks and rides: Far-off, in the Land of Memory, That midnight pool abides.
Many fine things had I glimpse of, And said, "I shall.
find them one day.
" Whether within or without me They were, I cannot say.

Written by William Allingham |

The Eviction

 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, 
And under each greatcoat a bayonet clings: 
The Sheriff on his sturdy cob astride 
Talks with the chief, who marches by their side,
And, creeping on behind them, Paudeen Dhu 
Pretends his needful duty much to rue.
Six big-boned labourers, clad in common frieze, Walk in the midst, the Sheriff's staunch allies; Six crowbar men, from distant county brought, - Orange, and glorying in their work, 'tis thought, But wrongly,- churls of Catholics are they, And merely hired at half a crown a day.
The hamlet clustering on its hill is seen, A score of petty homesteads, dark and mean; Poor always, not despairing until now; Long used, as well as poverty knows how, With life's oppressive trifles to contend.
This day will bring its history to an end.
Moveless and grim against the cottage walls Lean a few silent men: but someone calls Far off; and then a child 'without a stitch' Runs out of doors, flies back with piercing screech, And soon from house to house is heard the cry Of female sorrow, swelling loud and high, Which makes the men blaspheme between their teeth.
Meanwhile, o'er fence and watery field beneath, The little army moves through drizzling rain; A 'Crowbar' leads the Sheriff's nag; the lane Is enter'd, and their plashing tramp draws near, One instant, outcry holds its breath to hear "Halt!" - at the doors they form in double line, And ranks of polish'd rifles wetly shine.
The Sheriff's painful duty must be done; He begs for quiet-and the work's begun.
The strong stand ready; now appear the rest, Girl, matron, grandsire, baby on the breast, And Rosy's thin face on a pallet borne; A motley concourse, feeble and forlorn.
One old man, tears upon his wrinkled cheek, Stands trembling on a threshold, tries to speak, But, in defect of any word for this, Mutely upon the doorpost prints a kiss, Then passes out for ever.
Through the crowd The children run bewilder'd, wailing loud; Where needed most, the men combine their aid; And, last of all, is Oona forth convey'd, Reclined in her accustom'd strawen chair, Her aged eyelids closed, her thick white hair Escaping from her cap; she feels the chill, Looks round and murmurs, then again is still.
Now bring the remnants of each household fire; On the wet ground the hissing coals expire; And Paudeen Dhu, with meekly dismal face, Receives the full possession of the place.

Written by William Allingham |

Wayside Flowers

 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.
The sad of heart perceives A violet under leaves Like sonic fresh-budding hope; The primrose on the slope A spot of sunshine dwells, And cheerful message tells Of kind renewing power; The nodding bluebell's dye Is drawn from happy sky.
Then spare the wayside flower! It is the traveller's dower.

Written by William Allingham |


 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.

Written by William Allingham |

Abbey Assaroe

 Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, 
It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; 
The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Assaroe.
It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue; It hears the voice of Erna's fall - Atlantic breakers too; High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below; But gray at every season is Abbey Assaroe.
There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge; He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge; He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight The Abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white; Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded Assaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy Abbot's prayers; With chanting always in the house which they had builded high To God and to Saint Bernard - where at last they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Assaroe.

Written by William Allingham |

In a Spring Grove

 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, 
Gray ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn.
Here, too the darting linnet hath her nest In the blue-lustred holly, never shorn, Whose partner cheers her little brooding breast, Piping from some near bough.
O simple song! O cistern deep of that harmonious rillet, And these fair juicy stems that climb and throng The vernal world, and unexhausted seas Of flowing life, and soul that asks to fill it, Each and all of these,--and more, and more than these!