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There is no gardening without humility

Alfred Austin

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Alfred Austin
Age: 78 †
Born: 1835
Born: May 30
Died: 1913
Died: June 2
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Gardening
Humility
Without

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My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams.
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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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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 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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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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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 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.
Alfred Austin
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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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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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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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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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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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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If Nature built by rule and square, Than man what wiser would she be? What wins us is her careless care, And sweet unpunctuality.
Alfred Austin
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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
Alfred Austin
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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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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
Alfred Austin
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
Alfred Austin
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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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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
Alfred Austin