Quote

My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams.

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Streams
Rose
Peeped
Dreams
Casement
Sound
Scented
Sense
Steeped
Dream
Virgin
Young
Virgins
Music
Roses

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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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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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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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Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.
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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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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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Exclusiveness in a garden is a mistake as great as it is in society.
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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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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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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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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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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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Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.
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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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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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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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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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