Algernon Charles Swinburne

A Baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet As shine on life's untrodden brink A baby's feet.

II.

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled Whence yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, A baby's hands.

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world - A baby's hands.

III.

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise.

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes.

Three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon Between two dates of death, while men were fain Yet of the living light that all too soon Three months bade wane.

Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain, Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune That death smote silent when he smote again.

First went my friend, in life's mid light of noon, Who loved the lord of music: then the strain Whence earth was kindled like as heaven in June Three months bade wane.

A herald soul before its master's flying Touched by some few moons first the darkling goal Where shades rose up to greet the shade, espying A herald soul;

Shades of dead lords of music, who control Men living by the might of men undying, With strength of strains that make delight of dole.

The deep dense dust on death's dim threshold lying Trembled with sense of kindling sound that stole Through darkness, and the night gave ear, descrying A herald soul.

One went before, one after, but so fast They seem gone hence together, from the shore Whence we now gaze: yet ere the mightier passed One went before;

One whose whole heart of love, being set of yore On that high joy which music lends us, cast Light round him forth of music's radiant store.

Then went, while earth on winter glared aghast, The mortal god he worshipped, through the door Wherethrough so late, his lover to the last, One went before.

A star had set an hour before the sun Sank from the skies wherethrough his heart's pulse yet Thrills audibly: but few took heed, or none, A star had set.

All heaven rings back, sonorous with regret, The deep dirge of the sunset: how should one Soft star be missed in all the concourse met?

But, O sweet single heart whose work is done, Whose songs are silent, how should I forget That ere the sunset's fiery goal was won A star had set?

He held no dream worth waking; so he said, He who stands now on death's triumphal steep, Awakened out of life wherein we sleep And dream of what he knows and sees, being dead. But never death for him was dark or dread; "Look forth," he bade the soul, and fear not. Weep, All ye that trust not in his truth, and keep Vain memory's vision of a vanished head As all that lives of all that once was he Save that which lightens from his word; but we, Who, seeing the sunset-colored waters roll, Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea, Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole, And life and death but shadows of the soul.

Reconciled by death's mild hand, that giving Peace gives wisdom, not more strong than mild, Love beholds them, each without misgiving Reconciled.

Each on earth alike of earth reviled, Hated, feared, derided, and forgiving, Each alike had heaven at heart, and smiled.

Both bright names, clothed round with man's thanksgiving, Shine, twin stars above the storm-drifts piled, Dead and deathless, whom we saw not living Reconciled.

A baby shines as bright If winter or if May be On eyes that keep in sight A baby.

Though dark the skies or grey be, It fills our eyes with light, If midnight or midday be.

Love hails it, day and night, The sweetest thing that may be Yet cannot praise aright A baby.

II.

All heaven, in every baby born, All absolute of earthly leaven, Reveals itself, though man may scorn All heaven.

Yet man might feel all sin forgiven, All grief appeased, all pain outworn, By this one revelation given.

Soul, now forget thy burdens borne: Heart, be thy joys now seven times seven: Love shows in light more bright than morn All heaven.

III.

What likeness may define, and stray not From truth's exactest way, A baby's beauty? Love can say not What likeness may.

The Mayflower loveliest held in May Of all that shine and stay not Laughs not in rosier disarray.

Sleek satin, swansdown, buds that play not As yet with winds that play, Would fain be matched with this, and may not: What likeness may?

IV.

Rose, round whose bed Dawn's cloudlets close, Earth's brightest-bred Rose!

No song, love knows, May praise the head Your curtain shows.

Ere sleep has fled, The whole child glows One sweet live red Rose.

Take, since you bade it should bear, These, of the seed of your sowing, Blossom or berry or weed. Sweet though they be not, or fair, That the dew of your word kept growing, Sweet at least was the seed.

Men bring you love-offerings of tears, And sorrow the kiss that assuages, And slaves the hate-offering of wrongs, And time the thanksgiving of years, And years the thanksgiving of ages; I bring you my handful of songs.

If a perfume be left, if a bloom, Let it live till Italia be risen, To be strewn in the dust of her car When her voice shall awake from the tomb England, and France from her prison, Sisters, a star by a star.

I bring you the sword of a song, The sword of my spirit's desire, Feeble; but laid at your feet, That which was weak shall be strong, That which was cold shall take fire, That which was bitter be sweet.

It was wrought not with hands to smite, Nor hewn after swordsmiths' fashion, Nor tempered on anvil of steel; But with visions and dreams of the night, But with hope, and the patience of passion, And the signet of love for a seal.

Be it witness, till one more strong, Till a loftier lyre, till a rarer Lute praise her better than I, Be it witness before you, my song, That I knew her, the world's banner-bearer, Who shall cry the republican cry.

Yea, even she as at first, Yea, she alone and none other, Shall cast down, shall build up, shall bring home; Slake earth's hunger and thirst, Lighten, and lead as a mother; First name of the world's names, Rome.

WAS it light that spake from the darkness, or music that shone from the word, When the night was enkindled with sound of the sun or the first-born bird? Souls enthralled and entrammelled in bondage of seasons that fall and rise, Bound fast round with the fetters of flesh, and blinded with light that dies, Lived not surely till music spake, and the spirit of life was heard.

Music, sister of sunrise, and herald of life to be, Smiled as dawn on the spirit of man, and the thrall was free. Slave of nature and serf of time, the bondman of life and death, Dumb with passionless patience that breathed but forlorn and reluctant breath, Heard, beheld, and his soul made answer, and communed aloud with the sea.

Morning spake, and he heard: and the passionate silent noon Kept for him not silence: and soft from the mounting moon Fell the sound of her splendour, heard as dawn's in the breathless night, Not of men but of birds whose note bade man's soul quicken and leap to light: And the song of it spake, and the light and the darkness of earth were as chords in tune.

Blessed was she that bare, Hidden in flesh most fair, For all men's sake the likeness of all love; Holy that virgin's womb, The old record saith, on whom The glory of God alighted as a dove; Blessed, who brought to gracious birth The sweet-souled Saviour of a man-tormented earth.