Alfred Austin Famous Quotes
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Perhaps a maiden's bashfulness is more A matron's lesson than our lips aver.
Pale January lay
In its cradle day by day
Dead or living, hard to say.
No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.
Doth Nature draw me, 'tis because, Unto my seeming, there doth lurk A lawlessness about her laws, More mood than purpose in her work.
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.
Faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!
Tears are the summer showers to the soul.
My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams; And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams.
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.
When held up to the window pane, What fixed my baby stare? The glory of the glittering rain, And newness everywhere.
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.
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?
The bright incarnate spirit of the Morn.
We come from the earth, we return to the earth,
and in between we garden.
Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.
In my song you catch at times Note sweeter far than mine, And in the tangle of my rhymes Can scent the eglantine.
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.
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;
If Nature built by rule and square, Than man what wiser would she be? What wins us is her careless care, And sweet unpunctuality.
Never did form more fairy thread the dance Than she who scours the hills to find it flowers; Never did sweeter lips chained ears entrance Than hers that move, true to its striking hours; No hands so white e'er decked the warrior's lance, As those which tend its lamp as darkness lours; And never since dear Christ expired for man, Had holy shrine so fair a sacristan.
Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.
