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Faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Faces
Fall
Flakes
Firsts
Linger
First
Faded
Heart
Smiles
Grief
Silent
Face

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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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Exclusiveness in a garden is a mistake as great as it is in society.
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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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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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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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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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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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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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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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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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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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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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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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
Alfred Austin
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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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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.
Alfred Austin
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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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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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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
Alfred Austin