Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

41. Aholibah 4/12/2010
42. Insularum Ocelle 1/1/2004
43. On The Downs 4/12/2010
44. The Masque Of Queen Bersabe: A Miracle-Play 4/12/2010
45. One Of Twain 1/1/2004
46. In San Lorenzo 1/1/2004
47. Concord 1/1/2004
48. St. Dorothy 4/12/2010
49. In Sark 1/1/2004
50. The Roundel 1/1/2004
51. Hesperia 4/12/2010
52. Before Parting 4/12/2010
53. The Death Of Richard Wagner 1/1/2004
54. An Appeal 1/1/2004
55. In Memory Of Walter Savage Landor 1/1/2004
56. Thomas Middleton: Ix 4/12/2010
57. Adieux À Marie Stuart 4/12/2010
58. The Halt Before Rome--September 1867 1/1/2004
59. To Dora Dorian 1/1/2004
60. Athens: An Ode 4/12/2010
61. The Bloody Sun 4/12/2010
62. Change 1/1/2004
63. For A Picture 4/12/2010
64. John Day: Xiii 4/12/2010
65. Song Before Death: From The French 4/12/2010
66. Love At Sea 4/12/2010
67. On The Deaths Of Thomas Carlyle And George Eliot: Sonnets 4/12/2010
68. Let Us Go 4/12/2010
69. The Epitaph In Form Of A Ballad Which Villon Made For Himself And His Comrades, Expecting To Be Hanged Along With Them 4/12/2010
70. Prelude 1/1/2004
71. Choriambics 4/12/2010
72. Les Noyades 4/12/2010
73. Dysthanatos 4/12/2010
74. The Two Dreams 4/12/2010
75. Sir William Gomm: Sonnets 4/12/2010
76. Bismarck At Canossa: Sonnets 4/12/2010
77. Eight Years Old 4/12/2010
78. Christopher Marlowe 1/3/2003
79. The Song Of The Standard 1/1/2004
80. April 4/12/2010

Comments about Algernon Charles Swinburne

  • 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.

    8 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • 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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