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William Allingham

Autumn's the mellow time.

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She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.

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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.

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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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If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.

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To The Author Of 'Hesperides

Hayrick some do spell thy name,
And thy verse approves the same;
For 'tis like fresh-scented hay,--
With country lasses in't at play.

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Four Ducks On A Pond

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!

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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!

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An Evening

A sunset's mounded cloud;
A diamond evening-star;
Sad blue hills afar;
Love in his shroud.

Scarcely a tear to shed;
Hardly a word to say;
The end of a summer day;
Sweet Love dead.

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Writing

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.

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