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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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No verse which is unmusical or obscure can be regarded as poetry whatever other qualities it may possess.
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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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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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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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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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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
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No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
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Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think.
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The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
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He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.
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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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Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
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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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Exclusiveness in a garden is a mistake as great as it is in society.
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Alfred Austin said, Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
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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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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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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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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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