Quote

In vain would science scan and trace Firmly her aspect. All the while, There gleams upon her far-off face A vague unfathomable smile.

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
Gleam
Upon
Trace
Science
Firmly
Would
Vague
Vain
Smile
Gleams
Aspect
Scan
Face
Unfathomable

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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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In my song you catch at times Note sweeter far than mine, And in the tangle of my rhymes Can scent the eglantine.
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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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Exclusiveness in a garden is a mistake as great as it is in society.
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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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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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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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Faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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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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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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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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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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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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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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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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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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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