Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

201. A Marching Song 1/1/2004
202. Love In A Mist 1/1/2004
203. Music: An Ode 12/31/2002
204. A Night-Piece By Millet 1/1/2004
205. Anactoria 4/12/2010
206. Time And Life 1/1/2004
207. Prelude - Tristan And Isolde 1/1/2004
208. Four Songs Of Four Seasons 12/31/2002
209. Birth And Death 1/1/2004
210. Hymn To Proserpine (After The Proclamation Of The Christian 1/1/2004
211. A Clasp Of Hands 12/31/2002
212. A Flower-Piece By Fantin 1/1/2004
213. Love Lies Bleeding 1/1/2004
214. A Ballad Of Burdens 12/31/2002
215. Love And Sleep 12/31/2002
216. A Dead Friend 1/1/2004
217. A Match 1/3/2003
218. A Leave-Taking 12/31/2002
219. A Baby's Death 1/1/2004
220. A Child's Laughter 12/31/2002
221. A Forsaken Garden 12/31/2002
222. The Garden Of Prosperine 1/3/2003
223. A Ballad Of Death 1/3/2003
224. A Ballad Of Dreamland 1/3/2003

Comments about Algernon Charles Swinburne

  • Jamie Mitchell (1/11/2018 11:56:00 AM)

    Didn't Swinburne write a poem about Oacar Wilde? This collection seems incomplete.

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  • Johnny Ringo (12/26/2013 11:43:00 PM)

    I love reading Swinburne, some of his works really speak to me and I can read them again and again.

  • Dianne Ross (1/22/2013 3:01:00 AM)

    No poet writes more exquisitely of love than dear Swinburne. I will always hold him close to my heart. He was devoted to his Queen.

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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