Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which.— Algernon Charles Swinburne
The most irresistibly Algernon Charles Swinburne quotes that are glad to read
White rose in red rose-garden Is not so white;
Snowdrops, that plead for pardon And pine for fright Because the hard East blows Over their maiden vows, Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright.
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
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.
The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog.
I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met;
You hoped we were both broken-hearted And knew we should both forget.
When the hounds of Spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Love, as is told by the seers of old, Comes as a butterfly tipped with gold, Flutters and flies in sunlit skies, Weaving round hearts that were one time cold.
If you were Queen of pleasure And I were King of pain We'd hunt down Love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were Queen of pleasure And I were King of pain.
Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee.
There is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.
When I hear that a personal friend has fallen into matrimonial courses, I feel the same sorrow as if I had heard of his lapsing into theism — a holy sorrow, unmixed with anger.
For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust;
No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.
The highest spiritual quality, the noblest property of mind a man can have, is this of loyalty.
Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.
Wan February with weeping cheer, Whose cold hand guides the youngling year Down misty roads of mire and rime, Before thy pale and fitful face The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace Through skies the morning scarce may climb. Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears, But lit with hopes that light the year's.
Where might is, the right is: Long purses make strong swords.
Let weakness learn meekness: God save the House of Lords!
Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
In friendship's fragrant garden, There are flowers of every hue.
Each with its own fair beauty And its gift of joy for you. Friendship's Garden If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather.
Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading: Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her: Love lies bleeding.
To have read the greatest works of any great poet, to have beheld or heard the greatest works of any great painter or musician, is a possession added to the best things of life.
Wherever there is a grain of loyalty there is a glimpse of freedom.
The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog;
not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.
When fate has allowed to any man more than one great gift, accident or necessity seems usually to contrive that one shall encumber and impede the other.
In fierce March weather White waves break tether, And whirled together At either hand, Like weeds uplifted, The tree-trunks rifted In spars are drifted, Like foam or sand.
No blast of air or fire of sun Puts out the light whereby we run With girdled loins our lamplit race, And each from each takes heart of grace And spirit till his turn be done.
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.
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather.
The highest spiritual quality, the noblest property of mind a man can have, is this of loyalty ... a man with no loyalty in him, with no sense of love or reverence or devotion due to something outside and above his poor daily life, with its pains and pleasures, profits and losses, is as evil a case as man can be.
Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.
There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.
Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal; Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.
We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.
Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.
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.
Time turns the old days to derision, our loves into corpses or wives;
and marriage and death and division make barren our lives.
Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;
Thou art fed with perpetual breath, and alive after infinite changes,And fresh from the kisses of death,Of langours rekindled and rallied, Of barren delights and unclean,Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallidAnd poisonous queen.
For winter's rains and ruins are over.
.. And in Green under wood and cover Blossum by blossom the spring begins.
For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,The light that loses, the night that wins;And time remembered is grief forgotten,And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,And in green underwood and coverBlossom by blossom the spring begins.
In the world of dreams, I have chosen my part.
To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.
Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
In the world of dreams, I have chosen my part.
To say of shame - what is it? Of virtue - we can miss it;
Of sin-we can kiss it, And it's no longer sin.
Fear that makes faith may break faith.
The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
A young man with a very good past. [Fr., Un jeune homme d'un bien beau passe.]
I dore not always touch her, lest the kiss Leave my lips charred.
Yea, Lord, a little bliss, Brief, bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.
Our way is where God knows And Love knows where: We are in Love's hand to-day.
Ask nothing more of me sweet; All I can give you I give; Heart of my heart were it more, More would be laid at your feet.