Algernon Charles Swinburne

(5 April 1837 - 10 April 1909 / London)

Algernon Charles Swinburne Poems

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

    2 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • 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.

    9 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.

    11 person liked.
    5 person did not like.
Best Poem of Algernon Charles Swinburne

A Baby's Death

A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.



The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little ...

Read the full of A Baby's Death

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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