Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

161. Eurydice - To Victor Hugo 1/1/2004
162. A Landscape By Courbet 1/1/2004
163. The Leper 4/12/2010
164. Tenebrae 1/1/2004
165. The Triumph Of Time 4/12/2010
166. A Year's Carols 12/31/2002
167. A Channel Crossing 1/1/2004
168. Mourning 1/1/2004
169. Autumn And Winter 1/1/2004
170. Aperotos Eros 1/1/2004
171. Chorus From 'Atalanta' 1/4/2003
172. Non Dolet 1/1/2004
173. At Sea 1/1/2004
174. A Ballad Of François Villon, Prince Of All Ballad-Makers 4/12/2010
175. Swan Song 4/12/2010
176. Before The Mirror 4/12/2010
177. The Complaint Of Lisa 1/3/2003
178. The Way Of The Wind 1/1/2004
179. A Swimmer's Dream 1/3/2003
180. The Last Oracle 1/3/2003
181. Blessed Among Women --To The Signora Cairoli 1/1/2004
182. Itylus 1/3/2003
183. Hymn Of Man 1/1/2004
184. An Interlude 4/12/2010
185. Love In A Mist 1/1/2004
186. Nephelidia 1/3/2003
187. A Ninth Birthday 1/1/2004
188. Anactoria 4/12/2010
189. Leave-Taking 1/3/2003
190. Rococo 4/12/2010
191. Babyhood 1/1/2004
192. Laus Veneris 4/12/2010
193. Etude Realiste 1/1/2004
194. To A Cat 12/31/2002
195. A Watch In The Night 1/3/2003
196. The Year Of The Rose 1/3/2003
197. Cleopatra 12/31/2002
198. Dead Love 1/1/2004
199. Sorrow 12/31/2002
200. Hermaphroditus 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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