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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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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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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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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.
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Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
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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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We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden.
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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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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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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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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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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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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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Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.
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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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Tears are summer showers to the soul.
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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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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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