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She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Algernon Charles Swinburne
Age: 72 †
Born: 1837
Born: April 5
Died: 1909
Died: April 10
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
London
England
Algernon Swinburne
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Algernon Charles Swiburne
Lies
Kissed
Takes
Sister
Hand
Ghost
Lying
Fallen
White
Snow
Art
Thou
Hands
Loves
Care
Rose
Snows
More quotes by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Fate is a sea without a shore, and the soul is a rock that abides.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Fear that makes faith may break faith.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Today will die tomorrow.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Where might is, the right is: Long purses make strong swords. Let weakness learn meekness: God save the House of Lords!
Algernon Charles Swinburne
I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet He that hath more, let him give He that hath wings, let him soar Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
I will go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and no other, Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure Today will die tomorrow Time stoops to no man's lure.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
A young man with a very good past. [Fr., Un jeune homme d'un bien beau passe.]
Algernon Charles Swinburne
I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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 Charles Swinburne
The sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of every spring.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.
Algernon Charles Swinburne