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Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean the world has grown grey from thy breath/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death

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
Death
Fullness
Things
Feds
World
Grey
Pale
Drunken
Grown
Heathen
Breath
Hast
Breaths
Pagan
Thou
Conquered

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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.
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Time stoops to no man's lure.
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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.
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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.
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For whom all winds are quiet as the sun,/ All waters as the shore.
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There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.
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Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time with a gift of tears, Grief with a glass that ran .
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I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end
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Where might is, the right is: Long purses make strong swords. Let weakness learn meekness: God save the House of Lords!
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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.
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On the mountains of memory by the world's wellsprings, in all man's eyes, where the light of life of him is on all past things, death only dies.
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Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
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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
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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.
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God's own hand Holds fast all issues of our deeds: with him The end of all our ends is, but with us Our ends are, just or unjust: though our works Find righteous or unrighteous judgment, this At least is ours, to make them righteous.
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Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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There is no God found stronger than death and death is a sleep.
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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.
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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.
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Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which.
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