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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.

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Character
Garden
Preferences
Taste
Unwritten
Personal
Constitutes
Becomes
Autobiography
Sort
Tastes
Friends
Associated
History
Preference
Makes
Oneself
Interwoven

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Tis true among fields and woods I sing, Aloof from cities--that my poor strains Were born, like the simple flowers you bring, In English meadows and English lanes.
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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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From sunny woof and cloudy weft Fell rain in sheets so, to myself I hummed these hazard rhymes, and left The learned volume on the shelf.
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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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.
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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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Is life worth living? Yes, so long as there is wrong to right. So long as faith with freedom reigns and loyal hope survives, And gracious charity remains to leaven lowly lives While there is only one untrodden tract for intellect or will, And men are free to think and act, Life is worth living still.
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Thought, stumbling, plods Past fallen temples, vanished gods, Altars unincensed, fanes undecked, Eternal systems flown or wrecked Through trackless centuries that grant To the poor trudge refreshment scant, Age after age, pants on to find A melting mirage of the mind.
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So, timely you came, and well you chose, You came when most needed, my winter rose. From the snow I pluck you, and fondly press Your leaves 'twixt the leaves of my leaflessness.
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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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Doth Nature draw me, 'tis because, Unto my seeming, there doth lurk A lawlessness about her laws, More mood than purpose in her work.
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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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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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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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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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
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Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.
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