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

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As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead.
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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.
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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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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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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.
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Despair the twin-born of devotion.
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For whom all winds are quiet as the sun,/ All waters as the shore.
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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.
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My loss may shine yet goodlier than your gain When Time and God give judgment.
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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.
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In the world of dreams, I have chosen my part.
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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.
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Change lays not her hand upon truth.
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His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
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Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.
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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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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.
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There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.
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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.
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Is not Precedent indeed a King of men? A Word from the Psalmist.
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