William Allingham

In youth audacity is wise

Is idleness indeed so black a crime?What are the Busy doing, half their time?

Autumn's the mellow time.

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

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.

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.