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. — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
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… — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just… — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke. — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
Falling stars are high examples sent To warn, not lure. Gross fancy says they are Substantial meteors; but that is not so. They are… — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say. — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
No verse which is unmusical or obscure can be regarded as poetry whatever other qualities it may possess. — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams; And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams. — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
Public opinion is no more than this: what people think that other people think. — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
Is life worth living? Yes, so long as there is wrong to right. So long as faith with freedom reigns and loyal hope survives,… — Alfred Austin Copy Share Image
