Quote

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
Window
Glittering
Glory
Newness
Baby
Stare
Staring
Fixed
Held
Everywhere
Rain
Pane

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