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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.

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Everywhere
Rain
Pane
Glittering
Window
Newness
Glory
Stare
Baby
Staring
Fixed
Held

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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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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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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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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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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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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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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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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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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.
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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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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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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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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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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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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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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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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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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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