Quote

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.

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Leaves
Twixt
Winter
Fondly
Rose
Timely
Needed
Pluck
Came
Chose
Wells
Presses
Well
Snow
Press

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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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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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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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Exclusiveness in a garden is a mistake as great as it is in society.
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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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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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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.
Alfred Austin
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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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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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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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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
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There is no gardening without humility
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Alfred Austin said, Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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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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