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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
Rain
Hazards
Learned
Shelf
Left
Sunny
Shelves
Hummed
Sheets
Woof
Rhyme
Hazard
Volume
Rhymes
Fell
Cloudy

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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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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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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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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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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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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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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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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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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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No verse which is unmusical or obscure can be regarded as poetry whatever other qualities it may possess.
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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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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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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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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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