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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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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Volume
Rhymes
Fell
Cloudy
Rain
Hazards
Learned
Shelf
Left
Sunny
Shelves
Hummed
Sheets
Woof
Rhyme
Hazard

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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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Alfred Austin said, Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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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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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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Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.
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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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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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Exclusiveness in a garden is a mistake as great as it is in society.
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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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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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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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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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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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We are all alike, and we love to keep passion aglow at our feet, Like one that sitteth in shade and complacently smiles at the heat.
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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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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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