A Flower-Piece By Fantin — Summary

Heart's ease or pansy, pleasure or thought, Which would the picture give us of these? Surely the heart that conceived it sought Heart's ease.

Surely by glad and divine degrees The heart impelling the hand that wrought Wrought comfort here for a soul's disease.

Deep flowers, with lustre and darkness fraught, From glass that gleams as the chill still seas Lean and lend for a heart distraught Heart's ease.

Show the whole poemHide the poem

Learn Poems app

Try the Learn Poems app

Everything from the website trainer, and more: new exercises, voice recording and sharing, reminders, quick review.

Swinburne gazes at a flower painting by Fantin-Latour and wonders what it offers—is it pansies, heart’s ease (the flower as well as the feeling), pleasure, or thought? He quickly decides that the artist’s heart created the image in pursuit of “heart’s ease,” a balm for some inner ache. The painter’s hand, moved by feeling, transformed private trouble into a quiet, shareable comfort. The flowers themselves are deep with lustre and shadow, leaning out of a glass vase that gleams like cold, still seas. They seem to reach toward a distraught viewer, lending solace. The poem’s mood is hushful and reflective, suspended between the chill clarity of the glass and the gentle warmth of the painter’s intention. The soft repetition of “heart’s ease” acts like a murmured reassurance, binding the beauty of the picture to the easing of a restless mind.

More by Algernon Charles Swinburne

All poems
DreamyAlgernon Charles Swinburne

Nephelidia

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?
ContemplativeAlgernon Charles Swinburne

Not A Child

'Not a child: I call myself a boy,' Says my king, with accent stern yet mild, Now nine years have brought him change of joy; 'Not a child.'
DreamyAlgernon 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 then the soft white snow's is, Under the roses I hid my heart.