Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

81. April 4/12/2010
82. The Pilgrims 1/1/2004
83. Before Sunset 1/1/2004
84. In Guernsey - To Theodore Watts 1/1/2004
85. Fragoletta 4/12/2010
86. After Death 4/12/2010
87. Plus Ultra 1/1/2004
88. Thomas Decker: Viii 4/12/2010
89. Dedication To Christina G. Rossetti 1/1/2004
90. To Catullus 1/1/2004
91. Rondel 4/12/2010
92. Félise 4/12/2010
93. In The Orchard 4/12/2010
94. Faustine 4/12/2010
95. Satia Te Sanguine 4/12/2010
96. March: An Ode 4/12/2010
97. The Sundew 4/12/2010
98. Seven Years Old 4/12/2010
99. Étude Réaliste (Excerpts) 1/1/2004
100. Lines On The Death Of Edward John Trelawny 4/12/2010
101. Ilicet 4/12/2010
102. Discord 1/1/2004
103. The Channel Tunnel: Sonnets 4/12/2010
104. Dickens: Sonnets 4/12/2010
105. To John Nichol: Sonnets 4/12/2010
106. Monotones 1/1/2004
107. The Salt Of The Earth 4/12/2010
108. August 4/12/2010
109. Plus Intra 1/1/2004
110. Rest 4/12/2010
111. Marzo Pazzo 1/1/2004
112. A Year's Burden -- 1870 1/1/2004
113. Benediction 1/1/2004
114. Not A Child 1/1/2004
115. The King's Daughter 4/12/2010
116. A Song In Time Of Revolution. 1860 4/12/2010
117. Ode On The Insurrection In Candia 1/1/2004
118. In The Bay 1/1/2004
119. A New Year's Message To Joseph Mazzini 1/1/2004
120. Envoi 1/1/2004
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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