A writer who wore several hats throughout his career, Alfred Austin was a critic, novelist and political journalist. Although he was educated in law, his professional life focused primarily on literature. Austin published regularly for half a century and succeeded Alfred, Lord Tennyson as poet laureate of England in 1896. Nonetheless, he carries the reputation of having been the worst and least read English poet.
Austin was born on May 30, 1835, in Headingley, near Leeds, to Roman Catholic parents Joseph and Mary Austin. His father was a merchant and a magistrate of Headingley and his mother was the sister of Joseph Locke, a member of Parliament and a civil engineer. He was ... more »
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Alfred Austin Poems
Now do I know that Love is blind, for I Can see no beauty on this beauteous earth, No life, no light, no hopefulness, no mirth, Pleasure nor purpose, when thou art not nigh.
A Woman’s Apology
In the green darkness of a summer wood, Wherethro' ran winding ways, a lady stood, Carved from the air in curving womanhood.
A Last Request
Let not the roses lie Too thickly tangled round my tomb, Lest fleecy clouds that skim the summer sky,
A Defence Of English Spring
Unnamed, unknown, but surely bred Where Thames, once silver, now runs lead, Whose journeys daily ebb and flow 'Twixt Tyburn and the bells of Bow,
A November Note
Why, throstle, do you sing In this November haze? Singing for what? for whom? Deem you that it is Spring,
Good-bye, old year, good-bye! Gentle you were to many as to me, And so we, meditating, sigh,
A Night In June
Lady! in this night of June Fair like thee and holy, Art thou gazing at the moon That is rising slowly?
Free Will And Fate
`You ask me why I envy not The Monarch on his throne. It is that I myself have got A Kingdom of my own:
The love within my heart that dwells Knows nought of days or hours; I hear thee in the Christmas bells,
Is Life Worth Living?
Is life worth living? Yes, so long As Spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo's song,
In the ages of Faith, before the day When men were too proud to weep or pray, There stood in a red-roofed Breton town
A Birthday Present
```Say what, to please you, you would have me be.'' Then listen, dear! I fain would have you very fair to see, And sweet to hear.
A Dream Of England
I had a dream of England. Wild and weird, The billows ravened round her, and the wrack, Darkening and dwindling, blotted out the track,
A Poet’s Eightieth Birthday
``He dieth young whom the Gods love,'' was said By Greek Menander; nor alone by One Who gave to Greece his English song and sword
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Now do I know that Love is blind, for I
Can see no beauty on this beauteous earth,
No life, no light, no hopefulness, no mirth,
Pleasure nor purpose, when thou art not nigh.
Thy absence exiles sunshine from the sky,
Seres Spring's maturity, checks Summer's birth,
Leaves linnet's pipe as sad as plover's cry,
And makes me in abundance find but dearth.
But when thy feet flutter the dark, and thou
With orient eyes dawnest on my distress,
Suddenly sings a bird on every bough,
The heavens expand, the earth grows less and less,
The ground is buoyant as ...