Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

1. Hope And Fear 12/6/2014
2. A Baby's Feet 2/16/2015
3. Anonymous Plays: Xviii 4/12/2010
4. After Looking Into Carlyles Reminiscences 4/12/2010
5. Prelude - Lohengrin 1/1/2004
6. On The Russian Persecution Of The Jews: Sonnets 4/12/2010
7. May Janet 4/12/2010
8. Madona Mia 4/12/2010
9. Anonymous Plays:Xvi - ‘arden Of Feversham’ 4/12/2010
10. To William Bell Scott 4/12/2010
11. The Litany Of Nations 1/1/2004
12. Christmas Antiphones 1/1/2004
13. Anonymous Plays: Xvii 4/12/2010
14. To Dr. John Brown: Sonnets 4/12/2010
15. John Marston: Xii 4/12/2010
16. John Webster: Vii 4/12/2010
17. England Cxvii 4/12/2010
18. Quia Nominor Leo: Sonnets 4/12/2010
19. The Sea-Swallows 4/12/2010
20. The Tribe Of Benjamin: Xv 4/12/2010
21. Thomas Heywood: X 4/12/2010
22. Dedication To Joseph Mazzini 1/1/2004
23. A Sequence Of Sonnets On The Death Of Robert Browning 1/1/2004
24. Perinde Ac Cadaver 1/1/2004
25. Mater Dolorosa 1/1/2004
26. Siena 1/1/2004
27. Monotones 1/1/2004
28. Messidor 1/1/2004
29. On An Old Roundel 1/1/2004
30. Ben Jonson: Iii 4/12/2010
31. Beaumont And Fletcher:Iv 4/12/2010
32. James Shirley: Xiv 4/12/2010
33. John Ford: Vi 4/12/2010
34. First Footsteps 4/12/2010
35. George Chapman:Xi 4/12/2010
36. Dedication 4/12/2010
37. Epilogue:Xxi 'Tristram Of Lyonesse' 4/12/2010
38. On Lamb’s Specimens Of Dramatic Poets: Sonnets 4/12/2010
39. Philip Massinger: V 4/12/2010
40. To Victor Hugo 4/12/2010
Best Poem of Algernon Charles Swinburne

A Ballad Of Dreamland

I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound ...

Read the full of A Ballad Of Dreamland

Wasted Love

What shall be done for sorrow
With love whose race is run?
Where help is none to borrow,
What shall be done?

In vain his hands have spun
The web, or drawn the furrow:
No rest their toil hath won.

His task is all gone thorough,
And fruit thereof is none:
And who dare say to-morrow
What shall be done?

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