Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

121. Super Flumina Babylonis 1/1/2004
122. Hendecasyllabics 4/12/2010
123. Quia Multum Amavit 1/1/2004
124. Mentana : First Anniversary 1/1/2004
125. A Singing Lesson 1/1/2004
126. Chorus 1/3/2003
127. A Song In Time Of Order. 1852 4/12/2010
128. Recollections 1/1/2004
129. Three Faces 1/1/2004
130. A Child's Battles 4/12/2010
131. Stage Love 4/12/2010
132. Had I Wist 1/1/2004
133. A Dialogue 12/31/2002
134. Epilogue 1/1/2004
135. Armand Barbes 1/1/2004
136. The Higher Pantheism In A Nutshell 1/3/2003
137. A Dialog 1/1/2004
138. A Lamentation 4/12/2010
139. A Litany 4/12/2010
140. Sestina 4/12/2010
141. The Lute And The Lyre 1/1/2004
142. A Christmas Carol 4/12/2010
143. Sleep 1/1/2004
144. The Oblation 1/1/2004
145. Before Dawn 4/12/2010
146. Anima Anceps 4/12/2010
147. A Cameo 4/12/2010
148. The Eve Of Revolution 1/1/2004
149. Genesis 1/1/2004
150. In Harbour 1/1/2004
151. Cor Cordium 1/3/2003
152. Ave Atque Vale (In Memory Of Charles Baudelaire) 1/4/2003
153. Eros 1/1/2004
154. Before A Crucifix 1/1/2004
155. A Watch In The Night 1/3/2003
156. A Jacobite's Exile 4/12/2010
157. Past Days 1/1/2004
158. Hermaphroditus 4/12/2010
159. Swan Song 4/12/2010
160. Rococo 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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