Alfred Austin

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As there is wrong to right, Wail of the weak against the strong, Or tyranny to fight;

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;

Public opinion is no more than this, What people think that other people think.

Death is master of lord and clown. Close the coffin and hammer it down.

Omit death's certain sharpness, life would lack The salt that lends it savour.

Let Will but set its appetite on war, And Reason will promptly invent offence, And furnish blood with arguments.

Love and naughtiness are always in their teens.

O thou sophist, Man! Reason by reason proved unreasonable Continues reasoning still! Confronted close, What is this reason? Like the peacock's tail, Just useful for a flourish, nothing more; And when 'tis down, the world goes on the same.

In vain would science scan and trace Firmly her aspect. All the while, There gleams upon her far-off face A vague unfathomable smile.

If Nature built by rule and square, Than man what wiser would she be? What wins us is her careless care, And sweet unpunctuality.

Doth Nature draw me, 'tis because, Unto my seeming, there doth lurk A lawlessness about her laws, More mood than purpose in her work.

My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams; And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams.

[…] faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the head!

Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry.

So, timely you came, and well you chose, You came when most needed, my winter rose. From the snow I pluck you, and fondly press Your leaves 'twixt the leaves of my leaflessness.

Who loves his country never forfeits heaven.

Never fear to weep; For tears are summer showers to the soul, To keep it fresh and green.

[…] there is no love, That merits such high christening, but is built Firm upon some foundation out of sight; God, country, virtue, something not ourself, To which ourself is nothing, save the proof Of its invisible sureness.

Your logic may be good, But dialectics never saved a soul.

Death is the looking-glass of life wherein Each man may scan the aspect of his deeds.

Friendship, 'tis said, is love without his wings, And friendship, sir, is sweet enough for me.

Know, Nature, like the cuckoo, laughs at law, Placing her eggs in whatso nest she will.

Friendship craves The commerce of the mind, not the exchange Of emulous feasts that foster sycophants.

Let your house Be spacious more than splendid, and be books And busts your most conspicuous furniture.