There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.
Algernon Swinburne (1837 - 1909)
Source: Essays and Studies
Contributed by: Zaady
Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?
Source: A Baby’s Death.
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Ah that such sweet things should be fleet, Such fleet things sweet!
A blatant Bassarid of Boston, a rampant Maenad of Massachusetts.
Source: Under the Microscope.
Ah, yet would God this flesh of mine might be Where air might wash and long leaves cover me; Where tides of grass break into foam of flowers, Or where the wind's feet shine along the sea.
Source: Laus Veneris.
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.
Source: Etude réalistique.
There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.
Source: Bothwell.Act ii. Sc. .
The delight that consumes the desire, The desire that outruns the delight.
To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.
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