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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?

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Days
Dumb
Never
Lays
Frolic
Love
Winter
Melancholic
Life
Thou
Expanse
Notes
Exhilarating
Smile
Sunlight
Neither
Note
Flower
Flowers

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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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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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Alfred Austin said, Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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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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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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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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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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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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No verse which is unmusical or obscure can be regarded as poetry whatever other qualities it may possess.
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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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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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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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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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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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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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If Nature built by rule and square, Than man what wiser would she be? What wins us is her careless care, And sweet unpunctuality.
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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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