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Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Weeks
Slow
Smoke
Summer
Soak
Follow
Extinguished
Week
Dripping
Fire
Drifting
Another
Autumn

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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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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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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?
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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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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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Alfred Austin said, Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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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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Faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!
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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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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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There is no gardening without humility
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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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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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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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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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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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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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