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Algernon Charles Swinburne, love, in English Clear filters

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. 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 smart? Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird.
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.' How could reason be so far beguiled, Err so far from sense's safe employ, Stray so wide of truth, or run so wild? Seeing his face bent over book or toy, Child I called him, smiling: but he smiled Back, as one too high for vain annoy - Not a child. II. Not a child? alack the year! What should ail an undefiled Heart, that he would fain appear Not a child?
CheerfulAlgernon Charles Swinburne

A Ninth Birthday

Three times thrice hath winter's rough white wing Crossed and curdled wells and streams with ice Since his birth whose praises love would sing Three times thrice. Earth nor sea bears flower nor pearl of price Fit to crown the forehead of my king, Honey meet to please him, balm, nor spice. Love can think of nought but love to bring Fit to serve or do him sacrifice Ere his eyes have looked upon the spring Three times thrice. II. Three times thrice the world has fallen on slumber, Shone and waned and withered in a trice, Frost has fettered Thames and Tyne and Humber Three times thrice,
ContemplativeAlgernon Charles Swinburne

Blessed Among Women --To The Signora Cairoli

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.
CheerfulAlgernon Charles Swinburne

Babyhood

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.
ContemplativeAlgernon Charles Swinburne

Concord

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.
DreamyAlgernon Charles Swinburne

Etude Realiste

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.

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