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There is no gardening without humility. Nature is constantly sending even its oldest scholars to the bottom of the class for some egregious blunder.

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Even
Educational
Blunder
Constantly
Blunders
Humility
Scholars
Bottom
Oldest
Garden
Gardener
Class
Sending
Nature
Gardening
Without
Scholar
Egregious

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Falling stars are high examples sent To warn, not lure. Gross fancy says they are Substantial meteors but that is not so. They are the merest phantasies of Night, When she's asleep, and, dimly visited By past effects, she dreams of Lucifer Hurled out of Heaven.
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A garden that one makes oneself becomes associated with one’s personal history and that of one’s friends, interwoven with one’s tastes, preferences and character and constitutes a sort of unwritten autobiography.
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Alfred Austin said, Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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In my song you catch at times Note sweeter far than mine, And in the tangle of my rhymes Can scent the eglantine.
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The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul.
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In vain would science scan and trace Firmly her aspect. All the while, There gleams upon her far-off face A vague unfathomable smile.
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The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul. Share the botanical bliss of gardeners through the ages, who have cultivated philosophies to apply to their own - and our own - lives: Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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Where has thou been all the dumb winter days When neither sunlight was nor smile of flowers, Neither life, nor love, nor frolic, Only expanse melancholic, With never a note of thy exhilarating lays?
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Is life worth living? Yes, so long As Spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo's song, To show that she is here.
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Faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!
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My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams.
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Have you never, when waves were breaking, watched children at sport on the beach, With their little feet tempting the foam-fringe, till with stronger and further reach Than they dreamed of, a billow comes bursting, how they turn and scamper and screech!
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No verse which is unmusical or obscure can be regarded as poetry whatever other qualities it may possess.
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When held up to the window pane, What fixed my baby stare? The glory of the glittering rain, And newness everywhere.
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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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Though my verse but roam the air And murmur in the trees, You may discern a purpose there, As in music of the bees.
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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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